Diluviate
by maddening
Summary: When the flood comes it sweeps some things away and leaves others in its wake. How Marian Hawke and Alistair Theirin come to know each other. M for language and violence. Altered timeline and events, OCs, and post DA II events. Not quite AU, but well away from canon. Reviews very welcome!
1. Chapter 1

Hawke was sitting at her desk shuffling through the stack of correspondence she'd received that day, stretching her neck and back to loosen muscles still taught from her late night of seemingly endless spelunking through the ridiculously hollow Kirkwall coast. The well wishes from people she only half remembered were the hardest to deal with, usually. Everyone else wanted something – either help or to divest of her of her money through ridiculously transparent schemes – but these people wanted to thank her. She had to struggle to remember the names and events that might have put this person in her path and then inexplicably plucked them away from the destruction that she left in her wake. She didn't feel like she saved many people or that anyone should be thanking her. Adding in that she never remembered names – often too fueled by adrenaline to do so anyway but also never grasping that particular social nicety once she was in Kirkwall and was expected to actually remember and interact with people – well the whole thing made her feel terrible.

After the hard to read letters were some requests for assistance and a few rumor reports from Varric's runners and shipping notices, bills, invoices, and other necessities of keeping up the house to mother's standards. These she would pass off to Bodahn since she refused to let him grovel and clean and instead used his fine merchant mind to keep her household books in order.

At the bottom of the pile, having arrived very early that morning while she was still out mopping up another slaver den was a note that looked hastily scratched out and was much shorter than the customary letters she received which gave her a ridiculous number of titles and started with all manner of praise, grandiose pronouncements about her prowess or intelligence, and other assorted horseshit. She read it and then read it again – it had to be a joke, right?

_Dear Marian Hawke,_

_Please meet me in the Keep._

_-King Alistair of Ferelden_

Surely one of Aveline's guards was playing with her or maybe Varric was having some kind of laugh. Or someone else even, expecting her to show off her "Ferelden-ness" at being summoned by the King for some sort of poor machination or joke. She'd certainly been jerked around by people in Kirkwall enough to expect something of that sort but… well it seemed rather bold and transparent.

After staring at the letter and reading it yet again, as if there was some hidden meaning she could glean but that just hadn't become apparent yet, she rose from her desk and went out to the balcony. Bodahn appeared promptly when called, bowing in that manner she'd practically begged him to stop doing while she descended the stairs toward him.

"Yes, Messere?"

"Bodahn, who delivered this message?," she asked as she handed it over to him and watched him look across it. "One of the Viscount's messengers delivered it this morning, Messere, along with the other request from the Viscount, which was sealed."

She'd seen the sealed request – another request to talk to the Arishok on behalf of the city about… something or other. She'd stopped paying too much attention to the nature of the requests because the Arishok invariably already knew anything she'd be sent there to talk about and was usually far more helpful than that weasel Seneshal Brann or the Viscount himself. The Arishok was taciturn, difficult, riddlesome, but blessedly blunt – a quality Hawke appreciated immensely.

"This request wasn't sealed? Just three lines, no seal?"

"Just so, Messere."

"Bodahn, would you be willing to come with me to the Keep to honor this request? I can't believe that the king would request my presence at all and you travelled with him and the Hero during the blight, so you'd know far better than I what he actually looks like."

"I'd be pleased to acquiesce to any request you have for me, Messere, as I am, after all your humble manservant."

Hawke rolled her eyes. She would swear he did this on purpose just to irritate her if he hadn't been so constant and persistent in his need to pay back some imagined debt. Finding Sandal in the Deep Roads hardly warranted him leashing himself to her service and it definitely did not warrant this ridiculous and constant show of deference.

"Thank you, Bodahn. Allow me to change and we'll go shortly."

Turning to head back up the steps, she was stopped short by her mother who had a hopeful, eager look on her face.

"You were really summoned by the King? King Alistair requested you personally?"

"It would appear so, mother. Would you like to come with me? I have a feeling that I'm utterly out of my depth here."

"No, dear, as much as I would love to see you received by royalty, it wouldn't be proper. He summoned you alone by name. I'd argue against taking Bodahn except that it is totally appropriate to take a personal attendant."

"Mother, don't encourage Bodahn in his servitude. I didn't ask for it and, while I do appreciate his management of the household, his refusal to take payment chafes at me. It means I'm keeping a slave and I can't stand that."

"He's not a slave, dear, he's pledged his service to you. Why you can't accept that for the gift that it is I will never understand." Leandra sighed and placed her hand on her obstinate daughter's cheek. "But go, get yourself ready for your audience with the king and please put on a dress and not your armor. You are not a warrior, you are a lady being summoned to the keep and the King will expect you to look like a lady, not some ruffian."

Hawke bit back at the natural reply to this which was that she was indeed a ruffian and not a lady at all and wouldn't it be better to be honest. "I have other things to do in the city today, mother. And besides, haven't you always claimed it's best to be honest?"

Leandra huffed at her daughter's smirk and twinkling eyes, but there was no rancor in it. "Yes dear, I'm sure you know best."

Hawke ascended the stairs and gave herself a quick wash, making sure she didn't have any remnants of blood or filth on any visible portions. She was sure it was her imagination but slavers seemed to bleed more than just about any other man or beast she'd fought. Or Fenris tore through them with such fury that their blood and bits just splattered further. It was hard to say. While she dressed she smiled at the thought of Fenris in battle and the stark difference between him in that setting with his determined and stony cold face, his occasional screams of pure anger, the feral way he tore through groups of armed attackers and Fenris at ease, sipping wine, face placid and filled with flirtatious humor. Remembering their most recent private conversation made her feel a little flushed. "There are few pleasures greater than speaking to a beautiful woman," said with that smirk, leaned forward, voice dropped to a lower, rumbling timbre that plucked at her in a way she couldn't describe. Flirting with Fenris felt both more dangerous and more satisfying that flirting with anyone else had ever been. And flirting was something she was very comfortable with. It got her deals, it opened doors, and it eased a lot of the trickier points of being an armed female who needed to get things done. And she never did it maliciously or with ill intent. The last thing she needed was someone feeling lead on or jilted because she let a little banter go too far.

Despite her mother's protests, she strapped on her well worn, well fitted leather armor. Would she _need_ shin guards and vambraces? Most likely not. Would she simply feel more comfortable wearing them? Absolutely. She'd take the time to do her hair and put on a dress when her mother insisted, but if she were going to the Keep to potentially walk into a trap – or worse, an actual meeting with Royalty – she wanted to be as at-ease as possible and as prepared as she could be.

She met Bodahn in the foyer and asked him and her mother if there was some protocol to this like if she was expected to curtsey or kiss his ring or come bearing gifts.

"A curtsey would be appropriate, as would a bow. Don't you dare go grabbing for his hands to kiss them. His guards would probably tackle you if you tried to touch him."

Bodahn piped up and said "I'm not sure how your customs are, but I do remember that the young man quite liked cheese if you were going to bring a gift."

Hawke couldn't tell if Bodahn was putting her on. "Cheese? You're suggesting I just hand over a hunk of cheese to the King?"

Bodahn smiled placidly and shrugged "I do not know your customs so it may not be a good idea, but he certainly did enjoy his cheese."

"Well, that's a thought. Okay, right, well, I'm off then. Wish me luck, mother," Hawke leaned over to kiss her mother on the cheek before the two of them headed out. Instead of going directly toward the Keep, which the house was situated at the very foot of, she veered instead to the market, deciding to throw caution to the wind and bring the King a gift.

She asked the stall keeper to put together a sampler of what he considered to be their finest selections, since she knew nothing at all about cheese except that some was okay to eat when it was blue and some was not and that she was a little appalled at ever having to actually learn the difference. Cheese to her came in a block, was a little strong and chalky, and was best had with some kind of fruit and fresh bread. It was usually a milky color, sometimes closer to yellow or orange and anything else was probably spoiled, so why bother? The cheese stall proprietor was more than happy to babble at her about cheese names and accompaniments, some of which she took note of, but most of which completely floated happily over her head. She asked that he package them all up in a basket or bag, something that would keep for a while, while she grabbed a few other items. She also picked up a few apples and a bunch of grapes as well as some quince jam, which the cheese stall owner said was particularly good with one of the items he was packing for her. While the owner had told her that thin wafer crackers were best with these kinds of cheeses, she just couldn't wrap her head around handing a bundle of dry crusty bits of bread to the King.

All her other purchases secured, she swung back to the cheese shop for the actually very lovely basket the proprietor had put together for her for what she felt was an exorbitant price and, having another thought, swung back past home. If she was going to do something this ridiculous, she was going to go all out.

Her mother was surprised to see her back, but Hawke just held up a hand to forestall any questions and continued her march through to the kitchen where she picked up a loaf of bread that her mother had baked that morning. It was still fragrant, though no longer warm. It smelled warm and homey and right to her somehow. She tucked it along with the fruit and the jam in among the cheese basket, covering it all with one of her mother's embroidered tea towels. Her mother, as she headed back out the door, shook her head and looked embarrassed but didn't stop her. Leandra had learned long ago that her daughter was going to do whatever she wanted to do. She also knew that there was little she couldn't charm her way out of, so even if it was ridiculous to give the King of Ferelden a picnic lunch, there would be some explanation she'd dream up that would seem perfectly reasonable.

Heading through the doors of the Keep, there were certainly more guards than usual throughout the main chamber and up along the balcony that held the Viscount's office. The note hadn't said where in the keep she could expect to meet the king, so she just went to wherever there were more guards, figuring that there would be a heavier contingent directly around the king. This happened to be the Viscount's office.

As she approached, wending through local and foreign guards like they were purposefully making an odd little obstacle course of the steps, she was accosted by a feminine hand in her face and Seneschal Brann's snide, nasal voice.

"The Viscount is in a meeting and cannot be disturbed by anyone, especially you, Messere Hawke."

Hawke looked around to see if any of the guard was listening – none of them were obviously paying attention - and so she cleared her throat and spoke in a loud and clear voice that she knew would carry well – "oh no, Brann – I came to see you personally. Our mutual friend told me about the awful rash you picked up at the docks and I just wanted to make sure you were doing alright. I'd be happy to reorder the salve for you at any time if the problem rears its ugly head again." The guards were definitely listening now. "Oh! I almost forgot, I also came to see King Alistair. I received a note asking me to appear here for an audience with him."

Brann, red faced now with that eye twitch he got when Hawke managed to get under his skin in just the right way choked out, still in his haughty tone – impressive that he could hold onto it so well – "Really? The King asked you here? You're sure about that?" Bodahn stepped forward and produced the note with a flourish and then stepped back again with precision. It occurred to Hawke then that perhaps Bodahn actually enjoyed playing the officious little manservant role. Brann checked it over skeptically and heaved a sigh. "You will wait here,"he bit out, in the tone of a threat more than an order. He ducked through the office doors and Hawke bounced on the balls of her feet, arms swinging, looking around at the guards.

When Brann returned several minutes later, she was in the midst of a conversation with one of the King's guards, trying to determine if the King really did like cheese or not, but the man had been no help at all in that department. Brann was quickly followed by a taller man with coppery blonde hair cropped short except for one braid that ran from his crown and was tucked behind one ear. He sported a neat goatee the same color as his hair. His clothes were of noble cut but he had a ready smile and kind eyes. Brann introduced him as Bann Teagan, the King's advisor for this trip.

Bann Teagan held out his hand to Hawke and she took it as if to shake it but he bowed low over her hand and brushed his lips across her knuckles. "Lady Hawke," he said as he rose, smiling, "I trust you haven't been kept waiting for long, His Majesty was most eager to meet you. He's just finishing his meeting with the Viscount and he wanted me to ensure that you were comfortable while we waited." Before Hawke could say anything in response, he gestured toward a small vestibule with chairs just around the corner and offered her his arm.

It was the oddest greeting she'd had in her entire life and she had no idea what to do except just go along with it. She tucked her hand into his elbow and allowed herself to be lead to a chair. Teagan took the chair opposite her and seemed to be nothing but pleased to see and meet her. Bodahn took up a stiff at-attention position well behind her chair. After a few beats when she realized she should probably speak, she finally managed "Thank you for your greeting, Bann Teagan. But please, no one here actually refers to me as "Lady Hawke". It's just "Hawke". My mother's family is noble to their roots, but I was raised far away from that sort of fanfare and it hasn't really taken hold."

Teagan laughed good naturedly, "Well in that case we can dispense with the titles altogether. Call me Teagan, please."

"Well, now that we've figured out what to call each other, can you tell me why exactly I've been asked here by the King of Ferelden? I'm hardly well-known there – I'm closer to infamous here, to be honest, and only in certain circles. I can't imagine what his Majesty might have to say to me."

Teagan beamed again, and Hawke had the impression he had made it his life's goal to be the most affable man in Thedas. "His Majesty has had a keen interest in Kirkwall for several years since so many of Ferelden's refugees ended up in the Free Marches and Kirkwall specifically. There is also, of course, a vested interest in strengthening relations between nations. While keeping a finger on the pulse of activities here your name arose more than once, though most accounts were… a little difficult to decipher."

Hawke laughed and relaxed slightly – this was about Varric's tall tales and that was easy enough to deal with. "Teagan, you can't listen to stories in Kirkwall – especially anything having to do with me. A friend of mine is something of a story teller and… if I'm being kind, I would say that sometimes things get exaggerated."

"And if you weren't being kind?"

"Then I'd say he outright lies."

Teagan seemed delighted by this, smiling and chuckling appreciatively.

"Well, regardless of the relative truth of it, we do know that you've managed in just a few years to go from Ferelden refugee to living in an old manor home with your family's titles restored on the back of your own work. You've also become something of a hero to the other refugees here in the city and we know that you've been generous with coin and time. That is reason alone for His Majesty's interest. I'm sure the story we heard about you taking on an entire army of Tevinter Magisters who breathed fire and summoned waves of demons to dog your efforts was just icing on the cake."

Hawke shook her head at that, grinning "I hadn't heard the fire breathing bit. In truth it was a group of 8 slavers in a single cave with one magister and he only summoned a few demons."

Teagan shook his own head at that "Oh is that all then? Just a few demons?" He laughed a little as if at some private joke. "Yes I think you and His Majesty will get along just fine. Let me just go now and see if his meeting is at an end and find a suitable location within the Keep for you to talk. I won't be but a moment."

Teagan set off to the Viscount's office and Hawke twisted around in her chair to look at Bodahn, "Have I made an idiot of myself yet?"

"Not at all, Messere."

"Somehow I think you're just placating me, Bodahn."

Bodahn managed to look scandalized, utterly sincere, and impish at the same time "Perish the thought, Messere."

Hawke narrowed her eyes at him by way of reply and he simply stared back at her placidly, silly manservant smile unwavering.

She didn't have long to wait, the sound of the approaching King was heralded by a great clanking of armor. The King must have a permanent headache from the constant noise of his guard clattering around behind him. Hawke was suddenly more nervous than she'd ever been. The King of Ferelden was more frightening than the Arishok in her mind - mainly because her mother would never berate her with questions about her manners after talking to the Arishok. When the contingent rounded the corner, Teagan was chatting with the man who was obviously King. Assuming she should stand for this, Hawke rose from her chair but didn't know what to do with her hands and after a few false starts – on hips? Too petulant; at your sides? Too casual; behind your back? Too shifty- ended up lacing her fingers together and letting her hands hang in front of her, schooling her features into something she felt was neutral.

The King stood even taller than Teagan and was wearing just as much plate armor as any of his guard. He seemed impossibly huge, shoulders wider than most of his guards, chest broad, a golden halo of hair crowning a handsome face with bright soft brown eyes, a chiseled jaw, and a strong nose set above a mouth that was currently quirked into a smirk that managed to look natural and well humored instead of snide. The only thing that Hawke could think was that she was being put on – that someone had gone out and put together and incredibly elaborate hoax for no discernible purpose and managed to find a man to play the part of king who looked like something out of an Orlesian romance novel.

Then, memories floated up of Cailan, who she saw a glimpse of at Ostegar in his golden armor. Both Maric and Cailan had been similarly handsome and golden and swooned over and the family resemblance was clear. It made Hawke wish she still had some Ferelden coin so she could compare the profile in front of her to those of Marric and Cailan that graced the coins she'd last seen.

Teagan led the contingent to where Hawke stood and gestured at her as the guards and their stomping came to a stop. "Your Majesty, may I present Marian Hawke." And there it was. No escaping it now. Hawke knew she should curtsey but she was suddenly stuck in place, confronted with this huge wall of handsome and important. Thankfully the king saved her by extending a hand, which she took to shake and much to her her relief he did not turn it and kiss it. That earned the king a pointed look from Teagan, but Hawke immediately felt more comfortable not being treated like a noblewoman.

"It is a pleasure to meet you, Messere Hawke. As Teagan may have told you, we have heard quite a bit about you while gathering information before our visit and actually quite a bit more since arriving. The Viscount in particular was very complimentary regarding the assistance you've been able to provide him personally in dealing with the Qunari in the city. "

"Thank you, your Majesty, but please, it's just "Hawke", there's no need for honorifics. Teagan did tell me a little about why you might have requested this audience. Uh… well... I guess when a King makes it it's not really a request is it? Or does that only apply in your home country? For instance – if I got a note from Empress Celene telling me to pop around for tea, would I need to consider that a royal summons or just a friendly invitation from a foreign dignitary? … And I'm officially rambling. I'm sorry, your Majesty." Hawke was mortified. She'd somehow become Merrill for just a second there.

Alistair just smiled more broadly at Hawke's tangent "Well, it was a request, but don't tell Celene I said that the next time you're nibbling little cucumber sandwiches with her. I'm not sure she'd agree."

Hawke felt a wave of relief wash over her. Humor she could work with – this might not be so bad after all. "I'll try to keep it just between the two of us, your Majesty, but I'm disturbingly easy to bribe so I make no promises."

Alistair grinned at that "Oh really? And what is your personal weakness?"

"I'm sorry, your Majesty, but I'm afraid I'd require a bribe to tell you. It's a tricky circular kind of thing."

That earned an outright guffaw from the King. Hawke felt mildly proud of herself.

Teagan was smiling but there was an edge in his voice when he interrupted – Hawke got the sense that this kind of bantering could go on all day if Teagan wasn't there to step in. "Your Majesty, perhaps we can set up a room for you to talk? The Viscount has offered his office, for instance."

Hawke interrupted here "Actually, your Majesty, talking in the Viscount's office would be… well it would be uncomfortable, really. For me, if not for you. I can assure you that you needn't remember anything that you spoke with the Viscount about because it has been thoroughly cataloged and recorded by whichever pasty spy he has hiding in his walls today." Here Hawke leaned in conspiratorily "I always like to imagine that it's Seneshal Brann stuck in there, feeling underappreciated and dejected while he scribbles his notes."

Teagan looked somewhat taken aback, but Alistair himself just continued to look bemused. "I would suggest, actually, going to the Guard Captain's office."

Alistair got a curious look "Why would the Guard Captain's office be better?"

"Because the Guard Captain was one of the King's Army at Ostegar, and would, first of all, be very happy to meet you, but also be more than willing to keep anyone well away from the door. Using her own fists as deterrents if necessary. Maybe even if it isn't necessary."

"Well, then lead on, Hawke," Alistair said, gesturing her forward instead of offering his arm as Teagan had done, which earned another look from Teagan that the King either didn't see or chose not to acknowledge. Hawke glanced back to ensure that Bodahn was following with their basket for the king. Not that she need have worried. He looked solemn and austere like he was carrying something of great importance and wealth and not just a basket of semi-stinky cheese. Hawke lead them across the gallery to the barracks, and was thankful when the city guards made room for the King's Guards and only gawked a little. Hawke rapped on the Guard Captain's door and waited for the gruff "Enter" before swinging the door open.

"Aveline! I have a visitor for you!"

"Oh, Maker Hawke, what is it this time? " Aveline groused without looking up from her desk.

"King Alistair is here to take over your office, you don't mind, right?"

Aveline snapped her head up and immediately went the deepest shade of crimson ever seen on a face in the history of faces. She shot to her feet and then immediately fell into a kneeled position, head down in fealty.

Alistair waved his hands at her as if he was embarrassed "Please, Guard Captain, rise, there's no need for that. It's a pleasure to meet you. Hawke said you were at Ostegar as part of the King's Army."

"Yes, your Majesty. It is an honor to meet you. What happened at Ostegar was a great tragedy."

Alistair's face fell into a very somber state. He was clearly still aggrieved by the events at Ostegar, "Thank you, Guard Captain, and yes, I quite agree. Thankfully the man responsible for that tragedy has paid for his crimes. It will never erase the losses the country suffered there, but it may at least be a start in putting to rights everything that was lost during the Blight."

Aveline still only glanced at the king, eyes mostly averted as if looking at him directly might lead to heavy censure or perhaps the hand of the Maker smiting her where she stood. "If I may ask, your Majesty, what brings you to Kirkwall?"

"We're exploring strengthening our relations throughout the Free Marches and are meeting with city-state leaders and stewards wherever possible. I've been told that the first few years of a king's reign are crucial for setting up these long-term alliances and have rarely been in Denerim at all, truth be told, a situation I have no complaints about."

Teagan cleared his throat at that. "Yes, Teagan, giving away too much, shouldn't speak my mind after all, I'm just the King." Alistair had a rueful look on his face – this was obviously a conversation he'd had many times.

"Aveline, would it be okay with you if the king took over your office for a short time? I hate to shoo you away but outside of dragging him to my own home, which I can't imagine would be appropriate – though wouldn't my mother adore that - I can't think of a more suitable place to talk."

Aveline replied smoothly, composure regained, "Absolutely, Hawke, I was just about to check on Noodle and how his training with the guards was going anyway. Please, feel free to use my office as long as you need." Aveline bowed again to the king and to Teagan as she took her leave, the King's guards parting for her.

"Noodle? Did I hear her correctly? What in blazes is Noodle?" Alistair looked amused but confused.

"Ah, well, Noodle is my mabari. He trains Aveline's guards. Or, as she puts it, teaches them healthy respect. Even in our new estate and with frequent walks, Kirkwall really isn't the place for a mabari used to running the moors and wilds. So Aveline has him 3 or 4 times a week to chase down screaming men and women. He enjoys it."

"Hah! I imagine he does. But Noodle? That is the oddest name for a Mabari I've ever heard. And the Hero of Ferelden called hers "Xerxes". So add that to the list of stories I'd like to hear."

Hawke grinned "It's not that interesting your Majesty. But please, have a seat, arrange your guard however you like and we'll talk. I don't know how any of you even move in that armor, let alone stand around in it chatting."

Alistair took his seat, sending the guard out along with Teagan when his eyes landed on Bodahn for the first time. "Bodahn! That is you isn't it? What on Thedas are you doing here?"

"Hello, your Majesty. Bodahn Feddic at your service. It's good to see you well. May I express my condolences about your Grey Warden companion. She is certainly missed. As for why I am here, well, Messere Hawke saved my boy Sandal while we were all in the Deep Roads and then allowed my boy to stay in her home once we'd returned. It's all an ugly story, but without another way to compensate her for her kindness, I pledged my service to her as her faithful manservant."

Alistair looked a little stunned and shook his head, "Maker! I'm going to need a longer sheet of parchment for this list of stories, I see."

"Yes, well, I think Bodahn just covered most of it. He did leave out the part where I told him I didn't need or want a manservant and that he and Sandal were welcome to stay regardless. He also left out my nearly daily and sometimes hourly begging for him to please stop calling me Messere and to allow me to pay him for his service. He is absolutely the most stubborn Dwarf I've ever met." Hawke narrowed her eyes at Bodahn, who coughed lightly and gestured with his eyebrows and a little head tilt at the basket he still carried.

"OH! Your Majesty, I forgot..." Hawke began, but was interrupted. "Please, in private, just call me Alistair. If I had my way no one would call me Majesty at all, but at least in private I can have this one thing my way."

"Well then, of course, Alistair." Hawke smiled. Handsome, Funny, willing to laugh at her stupid jokes, and humble to boot. No one would ever believe her. She waved Bodahn over and he presented the king with the basket as Hawke explained. "After I saw your note I realized I didn't know what protocol there was in meeting a king and Bodahn said you liked cheese. So I went to the market and put together a little basket for you. I hope what's included is to your liking. Most of the accompaniments were the recommendations of the shop owner, though the bread is from my own kitchen. My mother baked it this morning so it should be fresh."

Alistair was already picking through the basket and breaking off bits of cheese, popping them in his mouth, before she was even finished. "This is amazing! Best greeting gift I've ever gotten. I've never seen Orlesian Brie outside of Orlais before and the stinky Roquefort here is perfectly stinky indeed. This is very thoughtful."

Hawke felt the rest of her tension flee at that. That was the last potential hiccup as far as she was concerned. Cheese basket accepted, she could just focus on answering questions and talking. Talking was never a problem for Hawke. While the king continued to munch on grapes and tear off hunks of bread – the man was eating like he was starved - Hawke continued.

"I'm glad to hear it. I wasn't sure if I would look ridiculous handing over a basket of snacks but I was willing to risk it."

Bodahn, seeming to sense that his presence was no longer required, bowed, "If that is all Messere Hawke, I will return to the estate to tend to your mother."

"You mean you'll return to the estate to report back to her about how many social faux pas I've made since we walked through the door to the Keep, right?"

"If Lady Amell were to ask, it would be my duty to tell her, Messere."

Alistair's head snapped up at that, but he continued to just chew thoughtfully while Hawke finished talking to Bodahn. "Yes, I'm sure it would be, Bodahn. And mother never gives you grief about your incessant use of titles. I know you favor her, it's okay, fly away little spy," Hawke intoned with a voice that sounded sad and put upon, but couldn't hide her smirk and Bodahn was smiling back at her with that little twinkle in his eye as he bowed again to them both and left.

Alistair had watched the end of this exchange with a quirk of humor to his features "Is that, uhm… normal, between the two of you?"

"What, you mean the bickering?"

Alistair nodded and Hawke smiled "Absolutely. At first I thought it was one level of subservience that he used all the time but I came to understand that Bodahn is sarcastic about half the time he speaks. Why we keep up the charade, I have no idea, but maybe he just feels bored otherwise. I imagine it's terribly dull being my steward. My companions come and go and are rarely a bother to anyone but me, mother's needs are simple, and really the biggest problem is Sandal occasionally swinging from the chandelier or creating an enchantment that backfires and causes some level of damage."

Alistair nods thoughtfully, "Hmmm, yes, I remember his enchantments being… powerful." Alistair trailed off talking for a moment and seemed to be thinking. "So – I need to ask… your mother is Lady Amell? Is there any relation to the Hero of Ferelden?"

Hawke laughed at that. "Your spies are paid too much if they haven't been able to get even that bit of information, Alistair. Yes, I'm the daughter of Leandra Amell and Malcolm Hawke. The Amell family was originally from Kirkwall but one of mother' cousin's moved to Ferelden in the midst of the scandalous fact that Solona, their daughter, was found to be a mage. They were at least thoughtful enough to abscond to a country with a more humane circle before turning her over. Magic has always run in the Amell family as has extreme piety – which means that a great many Amells have ended up in circle towers as soon as their magic manifests. It was only scandalous this time because my grandfather was about to claim the Viscount's seat."

Alistair nodded, but didn't interrupt. He had never heard anything about Solona's family and wanted to know anything he could.

Hawke continued, "Unfortunately, if you're hoping for more information about Solona, I'm not a help to you. I never knew her, but did meet her parents once. They seemed nice enough, as far as "nice" might apply to the type of people who would turn you in to the Templars without a second thought." Hawke noted and attempted to correct the clear bitterness in her voice as that last bit came out. " I went with mother alone because of it. I was around 12 at the time. Solona had already been at the tower for several years at that point. From what I understand she manifested her magic very early, earlier than most mages."

Hawke went quiet then, thinking about that cousin she hadn't known and the way it must have felt… having magic and being turned in like something unwanted. Bethanny, at least, had never endured that.

"You know, Alistair, I'm surprised that you haven't sought out this information before. From what mother has told me, Solona's parents are still alive and living in Ferelden somewhere, though the blight scattered everyone so we can't be sure where exactly they've settled now. Solona probably didn't have much memory of them, of course, but they wouldn't be difficult to track down. "

Alistair continued to look somber, "Well, I have a bit of a bad track record with hunting down family. Frankly, I was a bit scared of what I might find. And I don't have spies at all despite what you might think. I've never been very good at all that sneaky business. "

Hawke shook her head, "Well then that's something we'll have to rectify for you. I mean, even *I* have access to a spy network that I trust. Surely the king of an entire country should as well. I can guarantee that every noble in your country has at least one spy on their payroll working in your palace. And that many of them have spies working in the households of other noble families. I know it's unsavory, and I wouldn't suggest going that far – but you need to know what's going on in other countries at least. I'm sure your advisors would agree and if they don't then you also need new advisors"

Alistair laughed, "That sure of your correctness are you?"

"Absolutely", and Hawked beamed a full, toothy smile at him. She was actually really enjoying talking to the King of Ferelden. Not just tolerating. Enjoying. And the big smile and ruddy cheeks of his face seemed to indicate that he was enjoying it too. How would she ever explain this to Varric?

Hawke tried valiantly to get the subject back around to something neutral so that she didn't overstep something and come across as if she was flirting. Now was not the time to turn on that particular facet of things. She didn't need information, she didn't need to haggle down a price, and she didn't need to put someone on their heels and confuse them. Flirting was not appropriate in the situation, no matter how tempting it might be. She rarely had the opportunity to ply her charms on someone so… worth the effort. "So, not to change the subject entirely, Alistair, but what did you actually hope to accomplish in Kirkwall? While I know little of the political landscape in Ferelden, I might be able to provide a city-eye view of anything that might be important here."

Alistair also seemed to sober, clearing his throat, "Well, I have concerns about the circle and the Templars here as well as the Qunari. While they've apparently been quiet so far, I can't imagine that will last. "

Hawke thought about her response for only a moment. "It won't last. And… I think the Viscount may have been misleading. I wouldn't call the Qunari quiet. They've been far more reasonable than they were expected to be, certainly. And honestly, far more reasonable than I think they should be at this point. But it is not because they haven't been provoked. It isn't common knowledge, but elements within the city – especially within the chantry – have gone out of their way to provoke the Arishok. He's displeased and has hinted on a few occasions that he'd rather just raze the city than deal with our ways."

Alistair popped up from his seat and began slowly pacing. He was clearly one of those who liked to puzzle out situations while moving. "If he hates being here, why has he been here all this time? That's what I don't understand. It's hardly in their nature to simply hang about like this."

"The Arishok is not what I'd call forthcoming, however, from what I've been able to get out of him it's clear that he's being kept here because something was stolen from him, something he must regain before he can return to Par Vollen. Let me tell you, that man can sneer like he invented the facial expression. He's getting angrier by the day and the more extremist elements in the city continue to push. The Viscount means well, I'm sure, but his inaction and unwillingness to censure those who are responsible for those provocations is only going to end in destruction and bloodshed. I understand his fear of the Chantry, but he gives them far too much power. The Grand Cleric, Elthina, is not a rabble rouser. She's civil and thoughtful. She would listen to reason and she would do everything she could to stop those fringe elements under her charge from continuing. But the Viscount has done nothing to stop it. "

Alistair had a hand to his chin while he listened, eyes far away, processing this information. "The Viscount said that the Arishok asked for you by name recently and that you've become something of the diplomatic envoy to Qunari. "

"I don't know if I'd go that far. At this point, I'm an errand girl. But it seems that no one else in the city, especially the Viscount, is currently willing to deal with them. It has to fall to someone and so far that someone has been me. I don't think I've made anything worse yet, but that's as much as I can boast about my diplomatic skills."

Alistair nodded and sighed, "Sounds about where I stand. I count myself lucky if I manage to get out of most meetings without having to apologize for something I did, said, didn't say, didn't do, or may have implied with some type of facial expression. "

Hawke smiled again "Ah well I'm sure it's not that bad, you've been perfectly charming since I've met you at least." The king shot her a thankful smile. "At this point, the Arishok is putting up with me. I spend far too much time in their compound or dealing with his Karastaan and I'm sure that my never ending questions and conversation do nothing but annoy him. But I also see how the powers of this city are provoking him without cause. A diplomat who can do nothing but sympathize is rather useless, and that's precisely the position I've been put in."

Alistair seemed far away for a moment as he wandered back to the chair opposite her. "You know, we had a Qunari fight with us during the blight. Sten. Though he didn't have horns and wasn't quite as large as the Qunari you have here from what I've been told. From what I understood he was told to find out what the blight was."

"Then he was Beresaad. I haven't met any of them. It's all soldiers and scouts and Viddethari in the compound here."

Alistair held up his hands "I fought with him, I rarely to spoke to him so there were significant parts of that I missed. But… is it really as dire as you say?"

"Well let me put it this way… "Hawke leaned forward, elbows on her knees. "The Arishok is the leader of the military branch of the Qunari. He's not not a general, he is _the_ general – the walking talking avatar of all their military might. He is a living embodiment of their way of life as well as their primary and most important military leader. And someone stole something from him. Something so important that he came and dealt with it himself." Sitting back as she watched Alistair absorb that, she added to drive the point home, " As a point of comparison, he sent a team of answer seekers out to investigate something as all encompassing as the blight."

Alistair didn't look panicked as the Viscount had when she'd made much the same point. He simply absorbed it, nodding. "Well then, I suppose more than Kirkwall should be ready for this to go badly and quickly."

"I will, of course, try to keep that from happening – I feel like I practically live at the compound these days. The guards at the gates don't even bother with making me state my business anymore." Grinning and leaning forward "I do have to say, it's very odd having the Arishok call me "serrah". Frankly if you had time in this visit, I'd recommend an introduction. It wouldn't stay his hand should he choose to invade Ferelden, but at least you'd be prepared for what that might be like."

"That's… well I was going to say comforting but I believe it's exactly the opposite of comforting."

Hawke grinned at him "I think I find dealing with the Qunari a welcome change from dealing with the nobles here. They're equally viscious and warlike but at least the Qunari follow some sort of moral code about it. Maybe their bluntness has rubbed off."

"Not a fan of the nobility? Something else we have in common it seems." Alistair had settled back in his chair and had his head tilted to the side as he watched her talk. He looked as if he were attempting to take her measure in some way, to figure something out.

"They're ever focused on the minutiae and blind to the larger scope of things. In my admittedly limited experience, they're best ignored when possible and if not possible, they're best put in their place."

Alistair grinned at that, "Hah! Eamon would swallow his beard if I ever said anything like that around him."

Hawke grinned right back mischievously "Let me guess, Eamon is a noble?"

Alistair chuckled, "As are you, Hawke."

Hawke scoffed at that "I'm as much a noble as you are a saucy lady of the evening, Alistair." Hawke blanched as soon as the words were out of her mouth. "Maker's Balls I just said that out loud to a king. I'm so sorry. If my mother were here she'd have keeled over dead roughly 20 minutes ago at my course manners. "

Thankfully, Alistair waved it away, and smiling sincerely at her. "Not at all, it's actually really refreshing having someone talk to me like a person. Which reminds me, I'm only in the city for another few days, but I might want to check in with you again before this visit is completed. Would that be alright with you?"

"Of course it would. Not only would I be happy to provide help to someone I don't loathe for a change, but you're actually good company. It's been… a really pleasant surprise."

Alistair fully blushed at that and mumbled out "Ah, well, that's me, utterly charming in a surprising way." He was looking anywhere but at her while the heat in his cheeks receded. Hawke had rarely seen a man wear his emotions so clearly on his face this way. It was simultaneously intriguing and worrying. If he was like this all the time, it would be far too easy for people to take advantage of him and she felt oddly protective of him – the same way she felt about those others in her circle of companions. Now that she knew him he was hers to protect.

Standing again, this time Hawke stood with him. "Maybe when I see you again I'll have another cheese basket for you as well – one twice the size given the way you demolished that one."

"I will never ever turn down cheese, my lady, but you needn't bother yourself. Now that I know there's a shop in town I'll be buying them out on my own. You may return to find they've no stock left at all." Alistair radiated good humor at this. "Do tell your mother though that the bread was lovely and that it makes me miss home. Maybe I will meet her before we leave."

"That could definitely be arranged. I'm sure she would love that and then you could see where the Amell nobility bit comes in since I'm a poor example."

Alistair extended a hand and once again shook hers when she responded. He bowed slightly and she did the same. "It was a pleasure meeting you, Hawke. It's a relief to see someone from Ferelden doing so well after the blight, even if they've had to do it in another country." And when he said it is wasn't a platititude or something that a king should say. He meant it, every word.

He turned and strode to the door, heading out with Hawke following at a respectful distance. He continued through the barracks and strode out into the main hall of the keep. Teagan hung back to take Hawke's hand and kiss it once again, bidding her goodbye.

Hawke just stood watching the contingent leave the keep as Aveline slowly made her way toward them through the gawking crowd of guardsmen. "I don't know how you do it, Hawke, but do you realize you just spent half an hour alone with the King of Ferelden in my office?"

Eyes still distant, watching the King's Guards filing out of the keep, Hawke sighed, "Yes, Aveline, believe me when I say that I really really do realize that."

Aveline was watching the scene as well "He really is something out of a story, isn't he?"

Hawke nodded "Like something Varric would make up. But well, less ridiculous."

"Speaking of Varric, you know he'll write about this." Aveline quirked an eyebrow at Hawke.

Hawke sighed. "Unfortunately, he will. All I can hope is that he takes this in the direction of accolades and attention and not the way he's written about … well… "

"… everyone else you've ever encountered? Including Seneschal Brann? I believe in the latest tale he's been spinning Senschal Brann is just off-putting due to his searing jealousy."

Hawke shuddered "I hadn't heard that one. That's… unsettling. Also, how could I possibly be both the avenger everyone fears and the goddess they all want to bed simultaneously? It makes no sense at all."

"His readership loves it." Aveline shrugged.

"Well then I hope the king is out of Kirkwall long before the tales of his visit start circulating." Hawke clapped her friend on the shoulder and began to leave.

Hawke could hear the smirk in Aveline's voice as she murmured "Don't bet on it."


	2. Chapter 2

Alistair stood in the window of the room, staring out at Hightown. This city was so strange and all he'd really seen of it so far was a quick peak at the docks as they'd landed and Hightown. What he really wished he could do is lose his personal guard and go see the other parts of the city. He wanted to know how most of the Fereldens were truly living. He'd already sent general notice and made ships available to take the refugees back home, but the idea that so many of his countrymen had to spread out across the Free Marches while they fled gnawed at him. But Teagan had been adamant and since this was his first visit here, he didn't want to cause an incident. He'd have to rely on his guard captain, Donal, to report back to him about the state of the city beyond what the Viscount wished him to see. Maybe Hawke had been right – he needed spies.

He was staying in the personal residence of the Viscount, which was populated predominantly by staff, as far as Alistair could tell. The Viscount seemed to live in his office and Seamus, the Viscount's son, was home as little as possible. He'd been polite, intelligent, even charming in his earnest discussion of the Qunari. But it seemed Seamus's roster of interests started and ended with the Qunari, leaving room for nothing else. And it was difficult to tell if he was truly interested in them or interested in the extreme discomfort his attention to the squatters caused in his father. It was perhaps equal helpings of both. While Alistair could understand that rebelliousness he didn't have anything in his own life to directly compare it to. Why would you knowingly go out of your way as a young man to upset the closest relative you have?

He'd spent the morning in a meeting with the Dwarven Merchant's Guild. How that went he couldn't really tell. Solona had dealt with most of the intrigues while in Orzammar and dwarven politics were still a completely mystery to him. Dwarven Merchant politics seemed to run even deeper into labrynthine absurdity so he felt like he'd spent most of the meeting just nodding and saying "Interesting". He had just been trying to get some sense of surface merchant needs and processes from their own point of view instead of relying on the reports from King Behlen. He didn't trust anything that came from Orzammar, and especially anything being filtered through Behlen's henchman Gavorn. One thing they'd all agreed on, however, was the sorry state of ale in the Free Marches. He wasn't much of a drinker, but the swill available in the Free Marches would have made Ogrhen weep.

After the Dwarven Merchant's Guild, he'd met with a group of non-dwarven merchants who wanted to strengthen their personal fortunes in Ferelden. Unfortunately they seemed primarily interested in shipping in huge quantities of Orlesian silks and sundry baubles. What Ferelden needed was grain and plenty of it. The state of the country's farming communities wouldn't get them through the winter and the country was about to become sorely in debt to Orlais if they couldn't broker a deal to important grain, cheaply, from another source and soon.

The fact that Eamon was starting to seriously support the concept of an official alliance between Orlais and Ferelden for that very reason made Alistair feel the situation was even more dire. He would not marry Celene or any one of her many sisters or cousins. He still fully remembered the horror he felt at the prospect of that very thing when they'd found Cailan's letters at Ostegar. While he certainly did not have the kind of blind hatred toward Orlais that many others did, he had an extreme dislike of political machinations and arranged marriages. Marrying Celene would land him in the middle of both and he had no interest in being the woman's puppet, no matter how stunning she may be.

After the merchants had cleared out, he'd had an incredibly charming meeting with Knight-Commander Meredith at the Gallows. Apparently the Knight-Commander is too good to meet anyone anywhere except her own office. Which suited Alistair fine, actually, as he wanted to get a first-hand look at the place. And, Maker, was "The Gallows" an appropriate name. The statues that loomed down from the walls combined with the hard faces of the Templars and the obviously petrified mages scurrying back and forth was just oppressive. The stories he'd heard about the Kirkwall circle were, if anything, an understatement. He'd been completely taken aback to see Cullen of all people. When speaking with him he certainly seemed to be back in his right mind, but the last time he'd spoken to Cullen he was screaming about the death of all mages and trying to convince Greagoir to invoke the Right of Anullment. He'd certainly been tormented and tortured and the idea that he was welcome here to continue working among mages was… frightening.

But then given how absolutely nutty Meredith turned out to be, Cullen might actually be a calming influence among the Templars. She scoffed at the idea of allowing mages more freedom, she berated Alistair for having had the gall to suggest that Templars not watch over mages at a new circle in Ferelden (Which the Chantry berated him for as well and turned his royal decree into a silly suggestion that they could safely ignore), and then she dismissed him like he was a street urchin who had wandered in accidentally. Thankfully other Templars in the Gallows were more willing to have actual discussions and a few of them actually agreed with him about Templar control over the mages and how it pushes them toward demons instead of protects them from their influence. But too few to ever be counted on for support. Meredith struck him as the type to stamp out all dissent in her ranks.

After that lovely slice of Kirkwall life, he was more than happy to return to the relative quiet of the Viscount's home for the evening to try to relax. Teagan seemed to think the whole trip was going very well but Alistair only felt like he was gathering questions as opposed to answers. Marian Hawke had been the only person so far who hadn't spoken in circles with him.

He'd shared an early dinner with Seamus who, of course, had done nothing but talk about the Qunari. When Alistair had mentioned meeting Hawke to Seamus, the boy positively lit up. More than a little hero worship was evident in his reaction and the breathless way he recounted how he'd met her. The battle he described between Hawke's group of four and the Winters' group of 30 or more seemed as if it must be exaggeration and even said so at one point. Seamus reacted in such a scandalized manner, however, that Alistair was sure his count was accurate. Perhaps there was hero worship there and something else – something beyond respect and a little closer to a crush? Interesting.

But then, who wouldn't? She was undeniably attractive. Well that was a ridiculous word, even in Alistair's own mind. She was beautiful in a very real way. She wasn't some ethereal goddess out of a story. She had chestnut brown hair that framed a face with high cheekbones, a prominent but handsome nose, and a mouth that always seemed to be on the cusp of smirking. Her eyes were brown like her hair but with flecks of green and gold, making their color difficult to pinpoint at first and giving the impression depending on the light that they actually changed color. She also had that fighter's stance, that effortless grace of rogues who looked like they could dance just as easily as they could slit your throat before you noticed they'd pulled a dagger at all. It reminded him of Zevran, actually. She had the bearing of someone who could be languishing in comfort one moment and have you subdued and bleeding the next.

A beautiful woman who could also clearly take care of herself – it was almost too perfectly Ferelden. And from Alistair's own experience, he knew that it could be a potent mixture in a woman. The fact that she was also charming and intelligent meant that she was more than likely on the mind of many men in Kirkwall. Teagan had even been somewhat more effusive in his appreciation of her than Alistair had expected once they'd left the keep the day before. Teagan was always something of a pushover for powerful women – he'd made that abundantly clear when he'd met Solona. Once Redcliff was secure and Eamon on the mend Teagan had been practically giddy around the Warden, showering her with praise she had no idea how to deal with. The fact that Teagan had eventually married a sweet, shy girl from Redcliff made little sense to Alistair, but then he wasn't exactly an expert in matters of the heart. While everyone knew Alistair as the Bastard King they'd swallow their tongue in glee knowing that he was also the Virgin King.

Hawke seemed a little more "in on the joke" than Leliana had ever been. Leliana had always been sweet and charming, but in a very pronounced and highly feminine way. All giggles and eyelash flutters and pretty blushes that were certainly part of her personality, but also part of her training as a bard. While he wouldn't say that Hawke wasn't feminine – far from it – it wasn't in that same coquettish way. And why he'd developed such a sturdy opinion on this in the single day since meeting her he couldn't really say outside of the fact that he'd really enjoyed talking to her. It had been a long time since he'd just… talked to someone. She didn't seem to care about his position or status. And if she did, she did a good job hiding it. Talking to her had felt like talking to a person, one who didn't expect or want anything from him. And he'd missed that in the last few years. He had missed being… just Alistair.

Evening had approached while he stood in the window, going through these thoughts and, as if thinking of her had conjured her, he saw Hawke in the courtyard below. She had just walked down a set of steps with a tall man at her side and had come to a stop just in front of a flowerbed in the courtyard. The two turned to each other and were talking, Hawke standing with one leg slightly in front and one hip kicked out in a casual stance while the man – an elf – looked around like he was expecting to be jumped at any moment. Hawke glanced around a few times, and then walked around sort of aimlessly, like she disliked standing in one place. Not really pacing, just meandering. She crouched in front of the flower bed and ran a finger across some of the plants there for a moment, then stood and picked a leaf off the small tree and started systematically shredding it while she talked. Alistair's attention was drawn eventually to the elf she was talking to. He was very tall for an elf, with a shock of bright white hair and sinister looking spiked black armor. The man had the most enormous broadsword he'd ever seen strapped to his back. Peeking out in a few open patches along the backs of his hands and down his arms were what looked like tattoos, but they shone bright white against his tanned skin and seemed to have an almost metallic cast to them. Alistair had never seen anything like it. While he watched they both stilled and Hawke moved a little closer, as if they were discussing something, but Alistair knew this kind of purposeful casualness. He'd done it himself often enough. They knew they were being watched – he would never understand how rogues did that or why the elf, obviously a warrior despite his slight build, would have picked up on it too.

Instead of waiting to be found out, and run the risk of being thought of as creepy – because it was, frankly, creepy, that he'd been watching her - he tapped on the window. Both heads jerked toward the sound simultaneously, and he met Hawke's eyes and watched the grin spread across her face as her shoulder relaxed just a fraction. The elf, however, did not relax. Those huge green eyes just continued to watch him. It was a little unnerving, to be honest, but Hawke's smile more than made up for the discomfort. Alistair gave a little wave of his hand and immediately silently berated himself for it, sure it would look foolish. Hawke just grinned more and then immediately her face went serious. She turned her body completely toward the window and fell into a flawless, deep curtsey. Alistair let out a huge laugh at that. And then also schooled his features into what he felt was a haughty, kingly look, waving his hand now in a very stiff, formal manner, as if greeting his subjects. Hawke's head tilted back and her grin was a fully-fledged beaming smile now as she laughed. She then elbowed the elf at her side and said something, to which he shook his head "no". She elbowed him again and muttered something at him. He rolled his eyes in a long suffering way, turned toward Alistair and bowed. Hawke seemed satisfied with that and also bowed, smirking up at Alistair and maintaining eye contact.

The two of them straightened up and turned suddenly away from the window and Alistair could see a Dwarven man sauntering toward them with a grin on his face and recognized him as one of the men he'd met with earlier from the Dwarven Merchant's Guild. He hadn't gotten everyone's names and this man in particular had seemed to stay well outside of the bulk of the discussion. Alistair saw that the man had the most enormous crossbow he'd ever seen strapped to his back. What a bizarre group of people. Everyone who had mentioned Hawke tended to mention her "companions" with varying levels of distaste and disdain. She apparently kept company with an interesting array of apostates, elves, and ne'er-do-wells around the city. It was hard to discern if it was the elves or the apostates that bothered people more, but Alistair had gotten the sense that their real complaint was that she didn't kowtow to the correct people in the city, not that she had unorthodox friends.

After exchanging a few words with the Dwarf, Hawke pointed up at the window. The Dwarf waved up at Alistair and gave a flourished bow. Alistair inclined his head slightly toward the Dwarf. Then they headed off, the Dwarf taking lead. Hawke paused and waved back again, smiling. Alistair returned the wave. He continued to watch them leave and saw that Hawke looked back at him twice more before they moved down another set of steps and eventually out of sight.

"Might I ask what all that was about, Alistair?" Teagan was suddenly immediately behind him, causing Alistair to jump and turn awkwardly.

"Makers BALLS, Teagan, when did you get so sneaky?"

"I've always been this sneaky Alistair, and you didn't answer the question. Who were you pantomiming at in the street?"

Alistair rubbed at the back of his neck, "Ah, I imagine that looked a little funny from behind me. It uh... It was Hawke and a couple of her companions."

"Oh, really? I'm sorry I missed her." Teagan said, looking honestly disappointed. "She really is an intriguing woman."

Alistair went to read the correspondence that had materialized on the desk. "Yes, she seems to be. Should I tell Kaitlyn to be concerned, Teagan?" Alistair asked, peering at Teagan from under his brow.

"What? No, of course not. I'm married, Alistair, I'm not blind. There's no harm in acknowledging the woman's… charms."

Alistair continued to smirk at him "Ooh, her "charms" is it? Maybe you just have a particular weakness for Amell women, Teagan."

Teagan sighed a little wistfully "It was a shame that Solona was already entangled with that assassin of hers. He was so slimy, I still don't understand what she or, well, anyone, would see in him."

Alistair shrugged "After a while you got used to him. I thought the same at first as well, but he was very loyal to her and he really did care for her. He was like a walking corpse after she died. Besides, Teagan, I don't think she was the settling down type. She spent most of her life stuck in that tower and when she finally got out it was a year of constant struggle and the threat of destruction followed swiftly by a terrible death. You shouldn't pine after someone who was never going to be capable of being anything other than a fantastic Grey Warden."

Teagan looked at Alistair thoughtfully for a moment. "Alistair, did you just give sound advice without a hint of sarcasm or mockery? I think I might have to write Eamon and the Chantry to have this marked on their official calendars."

"Hah. Hah. Laugh all you want, but I've been King for three years; a few things at least have sunk in."

Teagan chuckled "I truly meant to offense, Alistair. You give yourself too little credit. You've been a good King and you will continue to be. You've handled the Bannorn beautifully, far better than Cailan ever did for certain. You've established a great deal of trade with Orzammar and forged a strong alliance with King Behlen. And you've managed to improve the Alienages throughout Ferelden without getting up the nose of too many nobles about it. The people, frankly, adore you. I know my brother is scant with his praise and heavy with his criticism but I'm beginning to think it's because he's come to understand just how little you need him. His only complaint now, and it's become an increasingly strident one, is the lack of a queen."

Alistair groaned and ran his hands down his face "Don't remind me. Before we left Denerim he had a list delivered to my study without any preamble that contained eligible and suitable marriage prospects from among the nobility. Just a list, like I should pick whichever looks most like my wife based on her name. The disturbing thing is, that most of them would probably be all too happy to be picked that way. You didn't have to marry a noblewoman and you've been just fine."

"Alistiar, I am not the King. A Bann has far more leeway in his marriage prospects and might I remind you that I still had nothing but a full month of fighting with Eamon about that at as well. I swear if we had any marriageable female cousins he'd have arranged some sort of intermarriage, as if the Guerrin line needs to remain pure."

Alistair intoned "creeeepy"

"Indeed," Teagan agreed. "But allow me to give some of my own advice. If you're hoping to marry for love, you might try actually meeting some of these women and actually talking to them instead of assuming that you'll hate them all. I've known many of the women that Eamon has put forth and there are at least a few that I think you'd get along quite well with."

"Yes, you're right. It's just difficult to even think about while I'm focused on getting the country back on its feet. I understand that my personal life is no longer personal, but it feels like such a petty thing to gain this much attention. How am I supposed to court someone when all they see is the crown and the palace?"

Teagan nodded, it was a conversation they'd had many times. "I understand, Alistair. Have you considered courting outside of Ferelden? There are bound to be marriageable women who aren't obsessed with your position."

"Well of course I've considered it, Teagan, but the problem then becomes that I can't just expect a woman who doesn't understand the duty of a Queen to be comfortable with that duty. If she marries me expecting her life to be one of leisure or one of simply being a wife she'll be sorely disappointed. And while I've come to terms with the nature of my life, I can't go through that whole process again with someone else, especially someone I'm supposed to be ruling a country with. Bah! I've talked about this enough. I have some correspondence to respond to and then I want to turn in. The ride out to Sundermount will take some time and I want to have a chance to really talk to the Keeper. Maintaining our relations with the Dalish can't be confined to Lanaya's clan in Ferelden."

Teagan rose from his seat "Very well, Alistair. I'll let you get some sleep. I've sent runners ahead to Starkhaven and Tantervale with our itineraries so they should be prepared for us, but also noted that we may have a change in arrival time depending on how long it takes us to traverse the Vimmark. I've also sent out some feelers for those books about the Qunari you've asked for, though I have a feeling Seamus is going to be an ideal source for those so we may be able to get them before we return to Denerim. Otherwise our best bet will be sources in Tevinter since they've had the most ongoing contact with the Kissoth."

"Thank you, Teagan. I'll see you first thing."


	3. Chapter 3

The meeting with Marethari had gone well. She said several incredibly cryptic things about the "light" in Alistair and about the "great things" that would be done by him. But he'd become accustomed to Keepers and the way they spoke. Marethari was as wizened as Zathrian should have been but it was impossible to tell her actual age. She could have been 50 or 250. Her clan had lingered in the same place for far too long because of the death of their Halla. Alistair sent word to Ferelden about the issue as soon as he was back at the Viscount's estate, though in truth he had no idea if they would be able to help. If he could, he'd arrange for Halla to be shipped by sea from Highever if there was any way for Lanaya to arrange the Halla to be brought that far north. Even a single mating pair would get the Sundermount clan back on their feet and able to move as they needed to. With Kirkwall so close and the fervency of the Templar Knight-Commander, Alistair felt they were in real danger of losing their Keeper if they lingered in the area for much longer.

The trip out and back took the entire day and it was dark when he returned to the estate. In addition to the message to Lanaya, he had some other housekeeping correspondence forwarded on by Eamon to contend with. Most of it was very basic, but at least Eamon was taking Alistair more seriously now and not simply making his decisions for him. He saw to it that the last of his belongings were packed, though the staff had taken care of the bulk of what needed to be sorted out. One of the house stewards called a messenger for him to take his correspondence, and he was nearly back in his room before he shot back out to scribble off one last note – a local delivery asking Hawke to meet him at the gates of the city tomorrow. He hoped it wasn't too late and that she'd actually be available. He didn't want to leave the city before saying goodbye and she had said that she'd be happy to see him again before he left.

The message sent, he collapsed into bed and tried not to think too hard about the impending trip across the mountains. Since his experiences in the Frostbacks he had a special dislike of mountain passes and the clans that dotted them. Not that he expected the Vimmark to be covered in backwater dragon-worship clans. But the association was not a pleasant one.

…...

Hawke stood at the gates along with Varric, both of them groggy and a little hung over. After the last few days, they'd spent the night playing cards and getting ridiculously drunk on the absolutely terrible ale available in Kirkwall. The night before had been… trying for them all in many different ways. While Hawke had developed a preference for any imported brandy she could get her hands on in Kirkwall, there was something especially appropriate about drowning your sorrows in alcohol that tasted just as sorrowful as you felt. If anyone were to ask Hawke what she missed about Ferelden, ale was not what she would have expected to float to the top of the list. But that's where it was, along with grass, moorlands, fog, and cool summers. The fact that people in Kirkwall were seemingly unaware of just how terrible their drink of choice was only depressed her.

She was out of armor for a change, not having the wherewithal to deal with all the buckles that morning when she was accosted by an all too cheery Bodahn waving the King's message at her. She had just enough time to slurp down some tea, shove a chunk of bread into her mouth, run a comb through her hair, and throw on a simple dress before she got down to the gates. Varric was only with her because she'd found him in the market on her way and forced him to accompany her. And he was not going to shut up about it.

"You know, Hawke, I'd say you owe me, but you know that. So instead I'll say you owe me BIG. It feels like there's an Antivan nug circus doing gymnastics in my head and I'm standing in the sun at the gate to the city instead of back in my own bed where I should be."

Hawke sighed, "Varric, were you not the one who wanted to see the King off? Were you not the one who said that you didn't get to "size him up" enough during the Merchant Guild meeting? Were you not the one who grilled me for every detail of the conversation we'd had? Oh, wait, I know the answer to all those questions. You were. I'm sorry that you're hung-over. I'll grab you an elfroot potion just as soon as we're done here. I'll throw in a neck rub as well."

"Feet."

"What?"

"Feet, Hawke. I want a foot rub."

"I don't do feet, Varric. You'll have to get one of your many fawning ladies to take care of that for you. It's neck rub or nothing, take it or leave it."

"I'll leave it, then. You're stingy when you're hung-over."

"And you're pushy when you're… awake."

He was mercifully silent for a few moments. But then just had to goad her. "You realize, Hawke, that you're wearing a dress. A clingy dress at that. Is there something more you want to tell me about Kingy?"

Hawke snorted "I've told you all I'm going to tell you about Alistair because you've wrung every drop of information from me on the topic. You asked me the color of his eyes at least three times, Varric. If anyone here is harboring a secret love for the king I think it must be you."

Varric threw up his hands in a position of surrender. "Alright, alright, I'll leave it alone. But if you're holding out on me, I'll know when he shows up."

Some of the King's Guards had been there when they arrived, but Alistair himself was not among them. The fact that they had horses at all was surprising to Hawke. She hadn't seen a single horse since coming to Kirkwall. Ferelden, especially in the north, near Highever, was horse country. While they were far more commonly associated with Orlais and their famed Chevalliers, the horses in Ferelden were of a sturdier stock given the length of the winters. These horses were clearly Orlesian and were far more majestic looking than those found in Ferelden. She couldn't help herself from petting their noses, despite the looks she was getting from the King's Guards. They hadn't actually told her to stop and she was adept at completely ignoring a hint when it suited her.

Varric was pacing around behind her as she rubbed her fingertips along the nose of the dappled gray stallion in front of her. "So how was Broody? We didn't get a chance to talk about that, just that he'd shown up finally."

"Fenris was… how you would expect him to be - agitated, upset, but also contrite. He apologized for storming off, which he didn't really need to apologize for. He apologized for taking his anger out on me – which was a complete cop-out, really. Spitting "What does magic touch that it doesn't spoil" at me for asking if he was alright was a little more pointed than I think he's willing to admit."

Varric sighed, "Well, maybe he thinks it doesn't matter as much to you because you're not a mage, Hawke."

"I suppose that's possible. I don't know. He acknowledged that we were friends and that he needs to just talk to me when he feels this way. But I know how hard it is for him so I didn't push. And the fact of the matter is – I'm glad he killed her. Maker, that sounds terrible when I just say it like that. But it's true."

Varric nodded at her "You and me both, Hawke. If there was ever someone who deserved her fate it was that sick little bit of work. I thought the stories about his master were bad enough. And "Hadriana"? Is that a common name in Tevinter or were her parents just especially unkind?"

After another gap of silence that Hawke knew wouldn't last, Varric piped up again. "How's the kid doing?"

Hawke folded her arms across her chest "She's okay for now. It's going to take a long time for her to relax a little, but well – this is the first day of her life she hasn't been a slave. She insisted she would just sleep in the kitchen last night and it was a long fight to get her to agree that she could have her own room. She kept promising she'd leave the door open. She was apparently up at the crack of dawn today cleaning every available surface in the house. Mother won't stop shooting me disapproving looks constantly, but she's been very sweet to Orana."

"You think you'll keep her around or try to find another place for her?"

"I really don't know yet, Varric. I worry about moving her off to someone else so soon. I think it would be better to get her comfortable with the concept of not being a slave and then take it from there." They were both quiet for a few minutes while thinking about the girl. Having watched her family and everyone she knew slaughtered to power blood magic rituals she was still oddly calm about the whole thing. Which just fueled Hawke's dread over just how awful Orana's life had been. "That reminds me, Varric, have you had any luck looking into Hadriana's background? I want to make sure that Orana can't be claimed as inheritance by anyone."

Varric nodded "I'm still checking into it. The good news is that Hadriana doesn't seem to have any immediate family. From what I understand she may have been a "prize" taken by Denarius after he did away with her father and brother. They weren't sanctioned duels, but they were easily ignored "accidents". But since Danarius is still alive, presumably, and she was his apprentice, Tevinter law may allow her property to fall to him."

Hawke sighed "Well, hopefully he's not as interested in hunting down a random maid as he is in hunting down Fenris."

The incessant clanking of plate armor caught their attention as they watched a small group of the King's Guard move forward with Alistair and Teagan at the center. They were engaged in conversation, but when Alistair glanced up and saw Hawke standing there, his face broke into a wide grin.

Varric at her side muttered "Uh huh. Nothing more to share. Why do you bother holding out on me, Hawke?"

Hawke ignored it and smiled back at Alistair as the group made their way closer. Alistair stepped over to the two of them and Hawke extended her hand to shake. "Greetings, your Majesty," This time, however, he turned it, bowed, and kissed her knuckles and then grinned up at her, still bowing over her hand. "Did Teagan see that?" Hawke nodded at him, feeling the heat rising in her cheeks – that was not the greeting she was expecting. "Good," Alistair said, rising and letting her hand go, "He was all over me yesterday for my manners."

Alistair didn't seem to notice the blush or at least had the good sense not to dwell on it if he did, and turned instead to Varric, extending his hand, "Hello again, Sere. I don't believe I had the pleasure of learning your name at the Dwarven Merchant's Guild meeting. If I'd known you were a friend of Hawke's I'd have pulled you aside immediately after the meeting."

Varric stepped forward and gave a little flourishing bow "Hello, Your Majesty, Varric Tethris as your service."

"Unfortunately my time today is extremely limited if we want to make any kind of decent headway before dark, else I would love to pick your brain about the Merchant's Guild and try to decipher exactly what happened in that meeting."

"There's no need for you to worry, your Majesty, you did well in the meeting. They come on all bluster and try to confuse and annoy as soon as possible to sort of… take measure of someone new. I'd say your dealings with King Behlen probably served you well. If you can deal with that blowhard Gavorn, you can deal with anyone in the Merchant's Guild."

Alistair had a slightly wary look about as he turned to Hawke "This is your friend with the spy network, isn't it?"

Hawke grinned "Was it that obvious? Just assume Varric knows everything about everything. If he doesn't know something he'll consider it a personal affront and work tirelessly until he does."

Varric produced a small packet of papers "At Hawke's request, I made this up for you. It's a list of contacts who can be trusted for their discretion and their particular… ah… areas of expertise. They're already on my payroll so you don't have to worry about paying them. If you have any questions about an area or an event, just send them a message and they'll get back to you or your representatives with whatever you might need to know. "

Alistair looked through the list, stunned at the number of names available and the countries and regions they covered. "This is … incredible. You have an amazing network here, Varric. "

"No, your Majesty, YOU have an amazing network. Any friend of Hawke's is a friend of mine… within reason."

Alistair folded the papers back up and shook his head "You have my sincere thanks." He turned to Hawke, "And you have some amazing friends. I was wondering…" and then trailed off as he noticed a nasty purple bruise, tinged with yellow that ran from the base of Hawke's neck and across her shoulder, ending in something that looked vaguely hand-shaped. "What happened? Are you okay?"

Hawke looked at him a little confused for a minute "Oh this!," she said, gesturing at her shoulder, "I had a trip out to check on a business I'm part owner of and we were ambushed by slave hunters from Tevinter."

Alistair's eyes went a little wide at that. "Is that… normal?"

Varric and Hawke both chuckled lightly at that "Depends on the day, really, your Majesty. But well, they were after a dear friend of mine and we decided to track them to their source. Cue magisters and blood magic and a shade who tried to take my head off."

Alistair, without thinking, gently prodded at the bruise and the surrounding area, showing no signs of bashfulness or skittishness about touching a woman he didn't know very well in the face of an injury. "I take it you've got a competent healer?"

Hawke smiled "Definitely. You should have seen it last night. Well, no, you shouldn't have. I was a mess. But yes – I'm on the mend, bruises should be gone in a day or two."

Alistair smiled "I knew you were something of an adventurer, Hawke, it just hadn't occurred to me that I'd be seeing some of the result of those adventures while I was here." Alistair leaned forward and whispered "To tell the truth, I miss it."

"I can understand that. It must be difficult spending a year fighting the blight only to have to put it all aside and be expected to allow yourself to be protected constantly."

"You have no idea. Anyway, I was going to ask before I got distracted by your lovely bruise – I was wondering if it would be alright to write to you sometime. I very much enjoyed talking to you the other day and it occurred to me how much I missed having companions who weren't staff."

"Alis-," Hawke caught herself, realizing this was not "private", "Your Majesty, you needn't ask. Of course you can write to me. I'd… really like that actually." As she said it, she realized it was true. She would actually really enjoy that.

"Good. Right then." Alistair looked around for a moment as if he were a little lost and then clapped his hands together and took in a deep breath. "I'm off to traverse a mountain range now. It was truly a pleasure meeting you and I can't thank you enough for the information," holding up the packet of papers Varric had handed him and addressing the dwarf," And your company," addressing Hawke.

Hawke smiled at the king and did that low curtsey for him "The pleasure was all mine, your Majesty."

Alistair went a little pink at that but had a warm smile on his face as he turned toward his horse.

Varric and Hawke backed up a few steps as the whole procession passed through the gates and Varric remained remarkably quiet.

Until Alistair turned and looked back, still beaming that wide smile at Hawke.

"Flirting with Royalty suits you, Hawke."

"I will kill you in your sleep, Varric."


	4. Chapter 4

The first letter from Alistair arrived far earlier than she'd expected. In fact, she hadn't really expected to hear from him at all, assuming that his request to talk to her more had been a bit of nicety on his part and not an actual request. It's not as if they ran in the same social circles, after all. But there it was on her desk, a thick sheaf of fine parchment with the royal seal of Ferelden imprinted in the wax seal.

…..

Hawke –

Our trip to Tantervale was largely uneventful with the usual requests and the usual posturing of their lord-regent. The Ferelden refugees there seem to be having a slightly easier time of things than those in Kirkwall, primarily because fewer of them made it this far north. I've already made use of Varric's amazing assortment of contacts and their information smoothed over several things that could have been incredibly uncomfortable to deal with had I not known about them beforehand. For instance, the fact that the lord-regent of Tantervale has a known proclivity toward very young men. His officiating chambers looked like something out of a very specific Orlesian pleasure-house with shirtless young men lounging about all over the place on display, quaffing drinks and chatting. Being prepared for that probably saved me a great deal of fervent blushing and averted eyes.

But my real reason for writing is two-fold.

First – what in Maker's name has happened to Starkhaven? I was lead to believe it was a very stable region and was counting on that fact to broker some deals that would bring their grain down the Minanter to Wycome where we could ship it back down to Amaranthine or Denerim. Ferelden is in dire need of new grain contracts and Starkhaven had looked like our most promising option based on reputation and the decades long stability given under the Vael family. When we arrived the castle itself was in complete disarray and despite being notified well in advance of our arrival, a steward greeted us and then shamefacedly told us that the Prince was "indisposed" and could not greet us himself. While I don't personally care much, on a political level, that's a disaster. I thought at first that we were being heavily snubbed, but after a few days here, it's apparent that this Goren Vael is simply a terrible Prince who is running the city-state into the ground. The contacts here have said much the same thing, but are scant on the details of exactly how this happened.

The stability of Starkhaven can't be our primary concern, but the farmers here are truly suffering. They've gotten no support from the Prince in the last year with trade agreements drying up. They had such a surplus of unsold grain that it was left to molder in silos before they could do anything with it. The farmers lost a great deal of revenue and their lords are furious at the state of affairs, having to dig deep into their own coffers to keep their people from suffering more. Every noble we've spoken to has had nothing but vicious anger toward the Prince and no one has been willing to confide in myself or Teagan what the change may have been. They seem scared to talk as if the same fate might befall them as well.

If there is anything at all you can tell me I would appreciate it. Even just knowing what the problem is may help us know how to attack the issue. Solona was something of a King Maker and while I won't claim that I helped greatly in either regard (one king was King Behlen, in Orzammar and one was, well, me) I was at least around for both of those processes and so some of it did rub off.

On another note entirely, I've been told I "talk funny" more than once. Apparently Ferelden accents are rare this far north and several of the farmers I spoke to threw their hands up in the air, giving up on understanding me at all. Could it be possible that I've been "talking funny" this whole time and it took a toothless Starkhaven farmer to point it out to me? Wait, don't answer that, I don't think I want to know. Our conversation in the Keep takes on an entirely new cast if I imagine that you didn't understand half of what I said and just placated me instead. Oh, and speaking of that conversation – I've wanted nothing more than another piece of that lovely bread but haven't found anything quite like it so far. The hearty food here in Starkhaven is far more to my liking than most of what I encountered so far in the Free Marches, but there's just something different about the bread that I can't place.

On to the second reason for writing to you: How have you been? Varric has been sending me steady updates. I thought it was odd at first, but I've come to appreciate them. The notes have been short enough that I think they're probably stripped down to the facts, but I have to wonder about some of them since they don't seem to make a lot of sense. According to Varric things have continued to degenerate with the Qunari and the Viscount. Someone named Petrice set up a Templar to kill a delegation? And the Viscount wanted to burn the bodies? How did the Arishok react to that? I have to admit that I'm more than a little worried about their ongoing presence there and your direct involvement. Not that I could imagine someone better suited to be involved, mind you, but from everything I've gathered, Qunari indoctrination is not a simple or smooth process and I fear the state Kirkwall will be in if the Arishok does decide to just raze the city.

I'm also now travelling from Starkhaven to Markham and then Ostwick, cutting off our leg of the journey that was to take us to Wycome since I now have nothing to bring them from Starkhaven. Because of that, I'm terribly bored on the road. Teagan is pleasant enough company and Donal, my Captain of the Guard is affable and easy to get along with, but neither of them laugh at my jokes. I find myself already growing wistful about our one short conversation. So even if you have nothing to share about any of the other topics I've brought up, I would appreciate anything to keep the boredom at bay.

Also – I'm sending this message through one of Varric's runners. They're easily twice as fast as the King's messengers and Varric has assured me in multiple notes that they're far more secure since no one would think to slaughter one of his messengers due to the lack of royal livery.

I hate acting like petulant royalty and commanding you to entertain me, but Maker, am I in sore need of entertainment.

Alistair

P.S. : Varric also mentioned that you were forced into some sort of nobleman's son's matchmaking gathering by your mother. Do tell!

…..

Hawke grinned to herself through the last half of the letter. Alistair had actually written to her and had asked after her in a non-official capacity. As much as she hated to admit it to herself, it was somewhat exciting. It felt like it had felt when Fenris agreed to continue to help her after they'd cleared out Danarius's mansion. Or how it felt to have Isabela say she'd tag along for a while. It was that sense of a having a whole vista of possibilities open up before her, there for her to shape in her own small way.

Hawke's mother had been hovering the whole time she read the letter and finally spoke up "Is the letter that interesting dear? You've reread it several times now." Leandra tried to keep her tone neutral but Hawke knew better.

"The king is asking for information about Starkhaven and asks that I help him alleviate his travel boredom by writing him back. "

"So it's a _personal_ correspondence from the king?" Hawke didn't like the edge that Leandra applied to the word "Personal".

"Yes, I suppose you could say that. Here, read it yourself." Hawke passed the letter to her mother, who did her best "oh alright if I must" face and then tucked into it greedily while Hawke gathered some writing materials to take to her desk in her room where she could be assured of privacy while she responded.

"This letter is quite lovely, dear. Are you sure that you didn't leave anything out about your meeting with the king?"

"Why would you say that, mother?"

"Well, he signed it with just his first name. That's incredibly informal. And some of the things he says are rather, well, inappropriate in a correspondence between a lady and nobility."

Hawke sighed, "Mother, I am sure even kings have friendly correspondence sometimes. It's nothing improper, he's just being honest. I thought you'd be happy about this. Your wayward, boyish daughter is getting letters from royalty that don't involve recriminations or summons to explain her actions."

Leandra put down the letter and took her daughter's shoulders between her hands. "Of course I'm pleased, Marian. And I've never thought of you as either boyish or wayward. You've been an amazing daughter and you've taken such good care of all of us for so long. I'm only concerned about your happiness and ensuring that everyone treats you the way you should be treated."

Hawke smiled "And how exactly should I be treated mother?"

Leandra was beaming at her "You should be treated like the wonderful, strong, beautiful woman you are. King or no, I don't want anyone taking advantage of you or behaving in anything less than a completely proper manner toward you. And if he thinks that he can simply because you aren't in Ferelden or seeing him at court, I'll have his eyes."

Hawke was honestly shocked "Mother! You've gone from concerned to feral in a manner of minutes. What's gotten into you?"

Leandra suddenly pulled Hawke into a tight hug "I'm just starting to realize that you've spent so long protecting all of us and well, I'm not sure that I've ever really thanked you. Your father isn't here to intimidate your suitors so it falls to me. You are my daughter and I love you more than words could ever say."

Hawke hugged her back just as fiercely, feeling unexpected tears forming in her eyes. "I… I love you too, mother. But… Alistair isn't a suitor. He might be a friend or maybe just a fond acquaintance. Besides, you can't fear too much from a man as enamored of cheese as he is. Just wave a hunk of it at him and he'll be open to any of your suggestions."

Leandra laughed at that and released her daughter, cupping Hawke's cheek with one hand. "I'm incredibly proud of you, you know. You've grown into a remarkable woman. Any man would be a fool for not seeing it. But… enough… I've reached my limit of hassling you for the evening. I'm off to meet Gamlen and I will see you later this evening." Leandra placed a quick kiss on her daughter's cheek before pulling away.

"Have a good time, mother – as much as you can with Uncle anyway. If it's dark when you're heading back please stop in at the Hanged Man and ask Varric to escort you. I know you hate it there, but you'll hate it more when I berate you for letting thugs rob you."

Leandra sighed, "Yes dear, I will do that."

Hawke watched her mother gather her things to leave and then gathered her own parcel of items and headed to the Library to write her return letter. Where the sudden burst of emotion had come from, she couldn't be sure, but Leandra had been more open in general lately. Maybe she was finally coming to terms with their life and the loss of Carver and Bethanny. Whatever the reason Hawke was secretly moved by it. She and her mother were not exactly rivals, but she'd always felt somewhat apart from the rest of her family. Mother doted on Bethanny and Bethanny was sweet, girly, giggly and everything a mother like Leandra could want for a daughter. Marian, on the other hand, was often crass, sarcastic, caustic, and wore armor and carried daggers more often than she ever put on a dress or worried about how her hair looked. Where Bethanny had been a joyous person to her core, Marian's humor was typically a shield or a weapon in its own right, keeping at bay anything that would get too close to her overly serious and sometimes downright dour inner workings.

Pushing aside those thoughts, Hawke settled at her desk and began writing out the more serious parts of her letter, determined to give Alistair plenty of entertainment after that.

Alistair was in his tent going over the last pieces of his correspondence when the messenger arrived with a letter and parcel from Kirkwall. The letter was nearly a package in and of itself, far longer than the letter he'd sent out and he couldn't suppress a smile. He'd asked for entertainment and he hoped that that's exactly what this would contain. Directing the messenger to where he could find food and a place to rest, Alistair weighed the parcels in his hands before setting them both down on the desk to be savored later. They would be his treat after dealing with the rest of the information he had to put down and send out tonight.

Sitting in a comfortable chair before a moderately sized camp desk, Alistair realized he would never stop finding it silly that he had a tent this large and actual furniture and that this was considered "camping". He'd spent a year during the blight sleeping in tiny tents when possible and outdoors under lean-tos and beside fires otherwise. A thin bedroll and a decent amount of dry wood were as far as comforts went for the vast majority of that year. So much so that, when they stayed in Redcliffe for a time before heading to Orzammar he hadn't been able to get any rest at all while sleeping in the bed and had finally just pulled a blanket to the floor.

He'd gotten used to beds again, of course, and he wouldn't forgo their comfort if he could help it, but the entire concept of making camp that required rugs and chairs and goblets was something he'd never become accustomed to.

Getting through the last of his correspondence was a self-made torture. His eyes kept sliding toward the letter and package from Hawke, speculating about what they said or contained. He had distracted himself from his long, very boring trip on more than one occasion thinking about seeing her off at the gates. She looked very much the same as she had the day at the keep with the notable exception of that dress. It was just a dress – a very simple, standard dress like a million others he'd seen in Ferelden. He didn't think she'd worn it to be enticing but that's exactly the effect it had had. The bodice of the dress clung to every curve and hugged her chest and rib cage down to her waist, flaring out just slightly at the swell of her hips and falling nearly to her toes where the tips of her boots peaked out. She wore her hair loose without any adornment or braid. Not a spot of cosmetics on her face. A woman in armor could be very attractive. But a woman in a simple dress that defined her figure was… something else. She'd been… beautiful. There really wasn't another word for it. And he was sure that she had absolutely no idea of just how stunning she'd looked.

Even the bruise marring her shoulder hadn't detracted from it in any way. It even seemed… natural… that it was there. Ferelden women, even noblewomen, were expected to be fighters in their own right. Strong, fierce, capable of picking up arms and defending their families and lands. The contrast between Ferelden women and women from other countries had never been more striking than it was as Hawke stood there at the gates to the city, unselfconscious and smiling with curious Kirkwall families lurking in the background, feigning disinterest in the departure of the King, but clearly having casual dressed up for the occasion of ignoring him.

Finally, getting done with the letters and passing them off to a courier who would see they were delivered, Alistair poured himself some wine and pulled the packages toward him like a starving man would grasp for roast meat. The seal on the letter wasn't pressed with a signet but instead a simple crest had been drawn in the hot wax with a quill. It was a stylized Amell crest, sketched out with a few simple strokes.

Cracking open the letter, he glanced over the sheets inside and noted her neat, economical hand writing. He suddenly thought that he might ration himself, read only parts of it and keep the rest for later. But then realized how foolish that was and that, besides, he'd never actually show that kind of restraint.

…..

Alistair, his royal Kingy –

Your letter was a surprise. I didn't expect to hear from you so soon. "Kingy" is what Varric has taken to calling you and I'm afraid once he chooses a nickname, he ensures that it sticks. I will attempt to entertain as well as inform in this letter as best I can. So on to the Information…

Sebastian Vael is the rightful ruler of Starkhaven. I have no doubt out of it, and neither does just about anyone else who knows him in Kirkwall. The problem is that Sebastian has many misgivings about his rightful place as ruler of Starkhaven.

There are many facets to the story, but the briefest is this… he was sent to the Chantry for education as his older brothers had the succession of the city-state well in hand. Sebastian wasn't raised with the expectation that he'd be a ruler some day and, as a result, was left to run wild to some extent. He certainly had a reputation as something of a rake when he was sent off to the Chantry. But the teachings stuck and he was a lay brother, considering taking his vows when word came that his family and most of the castle's servants and staff had been slaughtered. Since Sebastian was considered committed to the Chantry, Goran was put into place as the monarch, being next in the family line of succession.

How we met isn't important – I believe he feels some regret now over his need for revenge – but over time we've become friends despite our wildly differing opinions on the Chantry. We've also discovered together that it was a rival (but outwardly friendly and allied vassal) of the Vael family who orchestrated the murders. She was here in Kirkwall and she's… well, she is no longer a threat to him.

Aveline and I have been tirelessly arguing with him to take back his country for quite awhile now, but he's an incredibly stubborn man.

I haven't been able to convince him that he can serve the Maker as Prince, but what you've sent of your experiences may help. Thankfully, the Grand Cleric refuses to allow him to renew his vows until she feels he truly wants it. Sebastian is a kind, thoughtful, and compassionate person. His time in the Chantry has made a man of him and I believe that he is letting his people down by refusing to even try to take back his land.

Even with the unrest, it will take raising an army and gathering support for him to truly retake Starkhaven. The Viscount has been less than helpful in that regard – he ever sits and wrings his hands and does little to actually govern in my experience – but he's gained support from several long-time vassals and lords. I'm working on him as often as possible. It may break our friendship eventually, but I can't sit and watch him squander his life in this way. He was meant for more and your letter has done nothing but convince me to redouble my efforts to get him to see that. I've never asked Sebastian for anything, not even assistance. He's always come along of his own accord. Perhaps if I ask him to think about this again as a personal favor and a favor for the needs of Ferelden and its people I may be able to convince him to take me seriously.

So that's what's going on in Starkhaven. I have a feeling that some of the nobles there were at least aware of Lady Harrimann's plots and allowed them to happen, either because they were directly bribed or because they saw the potential vacuum of power as advantageous to their own schemes. However, the Vaels were well liked, even beloved, by the people. They would welcome Sebastian back, I am sure of that.

As for entertainment, well, I'm not sure what would suffice, but I'll do what I can. I've included in the package that should have come with this letter several of Varric's published works. "Hard in Hightown" is his fictional account of the life of Aveline. She was extremely displeased with it and actually refused to speak to him for a period of time once it was published. Primarily because it caused her guards to speculate about the main character and wonder amongst themselves just how accurate the stories were. It's one of Varric's most popular stories.

I've also included "The Hawke Flies North", Varric's account of my family's flight from Lothering. That one is oddly accurate as far as the actual events go. The descriptions are rather… embellished. While Bethanny was never lacking in the assets department, "Heaving globes" are not words I would have ever wanted associated with my little sister's chest. Varric usually referred to Bethanny as "Buttercup" and she adored him.

There is also an untitled account of our trip clearing out the Bone Pit. There were dragonlings infesting the whole thing. They'd killed most of the workers and a smallish, but older dragon was there as well. Varric has wildly exaggerated the number and sizes of the drakes we encountered. But it allowed him to add "Dragon Slayer" to my ever growing list of honorifics so he is more than happy to ignore the pitiful size of the things.

I'm going to give you a slightly more accurate idea of who all these people are in the stories. I'll try to brief, but people are complicated so this might take a bit.

In these various stories you'll see more about Varric, though he rarely goes into detail about himself. He doesn't see himself as the main character in any of his stories, despite the fact that he's often right at the center of orchestrating them. I met him while attempting to get into a Deep Roads expedition immediately after being released from a year of indentured work. That was the only way we were allowed in to Kirkwall – a lot of bribe money and being chained to a smuggler for whatever she wanted us to do for a year. Needing stability and to get my mother and sister out of our Lowtown hovel with my uncle, Bethanny pushed for us to join the expedition as it promised wealth – or at least a good step in that direction. Varric devised a scheme for me to gain enough money (50 soverign, which was utterly exorbitant at the time as I had just a few silver to my name that wasn't already spoken for) to become a partner with his brother Bartrand, the leader of the expedition. It worked, obviously, but only after months of Varric and I hunting down every lead on every job we could find from the lowest theft and mercenary work to keeping the nobles' dirty secrets hidden from them. It was quite an introduction to the sort of machinations at work in Kirkwall across every social stratum.

Varric refers to himself as my official biographer and has written and disseminated a great many stories about me. The vast majority of which are so riddled with falsehoods that I often wonder why he even bothers trying to connect them to real events. If the stories are to be believed I've the influential power of Andraste, the dramatic flair of the Black Fox, and the sort of woebegone tragic soul you'd expect to be depicted in the soppiest of Orlesian romance literature. Varric however may just be the most powerful man in Kirkwall – information is a commodity that he excels in trading and there is never a lack of demand more.

Aveline and I met along the lines in the story I sent you. She entered the Kirkwall guard just after our servitude period was up and has climbed the ranks ever since, becoming Guard Captain within the year. Thankfully, she's never been put in the position to arrest me or have any of her guardsmen come down on me personally. Isabela is a different story, but Aveline, bless her, doesn't count me responsible for Isabela. I've often been able to assist her, in fact, when going through the proper channels gets her nowhere. We don't see eye to eye on everything – not by a long shot. But she's been like family to me since we washed up in Kirkwall and may just be my only true test of moral rightness in this place. If I'm unsure of something, I need only run it past her to determine if it's right, wrong, or simply not right in the eyes of the law.

Fenris is my closest friend here. I've no idea how it happened, but it did. Varric calls him "Broody" most of the time though I feel it's a little unfair. Fenris is certainly dour and taciturn but I believe he's earned it. We crossed paths several years ago while I was still hunting up coin for the Deep Roads. He was being hunted by Slavers from Tevinter - he'd been a slave to a powerful Magister there and he'd managed to escape. Unfortunately, the Magister had made him some sort of… experiment. His tattoos, which you may have seen as they are difficult to ignore, are made of Lyrium that has been branded into his skin. It should have killed him – but it didn't. But he did lose all his memories, either as part of the ritual or because Denarious chose to remove them. His memories start as a young man with no past and knowing only what it is to be a slave to cruel and powerful people.

Fenris stayed around for a while out of a sense of obligation for helping him. But I'd like to think now that he's remained because he has friends. Any one of us would shield him from harm just as he would shield us. It's taken quite a long time, but he's begun to open up. I've convinced him to let me teach him read, he's become something of a dangerous Wicked Grace player, and he's finally started jabbing back when Varric or Isabela decides to play with him. He still thinks of himself as someone hunted, as not truly free and I find that incredibly frustrating – but I also don't hold it against him. Somehow we understand each other though our backgrounds couldn't be more different.

On a lighter note, he's making me a better fighter. We spar at least once a week, most of which is spent with me getting pummeled into the ground with that ridiculous sword of his and then him correcting everything I did wrong. But yesterday I managed to get in 3 different shots to him, any one of which would have been a crippling blow. It's only taken years, but I'm figuring out his weaknesses! Thank the Maker he's on my side. I'd hate to have to go against him in a real fight.

Merrill is a Dalish elf who was… well I don't know how to put it. She was "given" to us by Marethari, the keeper of the tribe at Sundermount. In the story about our family ending up in Kirkwall you'll see that Flemeth, a witch? A dragon? I don't know what she is… met us on the road just outside the Kokari Wilds as we fled Lothering. In exchange for helping us get to a port to catch a ship to Kirkwall, I agreed to take an amulet to the Keeper. Having little other choice and deciding eventually that I should probably not go back on my word to a woman who can become a dragon at will, I delivered the amulet to Marethari and we were asked to ascend to the graveyard at the top of the mountain and go through a Dalish ritual for the dead along with the help of the Keeper's "First", Merrill. We did as requested, discovering along the way that Merrill was more than happy to whip out her knife and slice her hands for things like opening a passageway blocked by magic. That didn't exactly endear herself to me. I have no problem with apostates. I have a big problem with blood magic and it didn't help that Fenris had accompanied me. I don't think Merrill will ever appreciate just how close she came to having her heart crushed in her chest that day. Flemeth arouse from the amulet once the ritual was completed. I'd been toting a Witch around for a year without knowing it. I was more than a little surprised, but Flemeth just seem vaguely amused that I'd actually kept my end of the bargain. She had some words for Merrill and for Fenris and for me. I got the sense that she knows far more than she should. A sense that I'd also gotten when she'd agreed to help us get to Kirkwall in the first place.

When we returned to the Keeper, Marethari asked that, as part of the bargain, we take Merrill with us to Kirkwall. I didn't really have a choice in the matter. I wasn't going to annoy Flemeth and I didn't want to make an enemy of the Keeper either. So we took Merrill with us to Kirkwall and got her set up in a house in the alienage. She looked so sad and lost that I promised I'd come to see her and I have continued to do so. She is "Daisy" to Varric and incredibly sweet while also being incredibly misguided and oddly stubborn about it. She needs a ball of twine to get from her own house to anywhere else in Lowtown and even then frequently becomes lost. The shopkeepers have become accustomed to having their stalls wrapped in twine as she tries to make her way from her house to the Hanged Man.

Isabela is a Rivaini pirate who Varric, in an uncharacteristically non-inventive turn, calls "Rivaini". Isabela also claims she met you once, before you were king, in Denerim at a place called The Pearl. So – do tell, Alistair. I didn't picture you as the whore house type!

Isabela is often scantily clad, often lewd, and nearly always a good person to have in a fight. I'm extremely fond of her despite the fact that I'm cannot trust her in the least. She's been searching for a lost relic the whole time I've known her and I ended up meeting her totally by accident. From the moment I've met Isabela she has managed to embroil me in a million plots, schemes, and crackpot plans for any number of things – from ways to get a new ship to interesting ways to annoy Aveline.

Let's see, I've already told you about Sebastian and that leaves just Anders. I don't know if you would have met him or known of him already – I'm not really sure how all that works with the Grey Wardens. Anders escaped or fled the Wardens – he's never really been clear on that point. I met him because I needed maps into the deep roads and Varric figured a Grey Warden would be a good bet for that. I have something of a… contentious… relationship with Anders. He's a brilliant healer. He's quite literally saved my life on multiple occasions. There are moments when I see his humor and his charm and I feel like I could be a real friend to him. And then his other side comes out and ruins it all.

Anders himself has been extremely sketchy on the details, but Varric and I have been able to piece together some of it. Apparently Anders was conscripted while he was being taken back to the circle after another escape attempt. He served with the Wardens in Amaranthine for a period of time but then suddenly… left. We haven't found out what the circumstances were. He lives in Darktown and runs a clinic there. He's extremely troubled – I won't go into details – but he's tried to do good things for those who are often forgotten about in the dregs of society here. He rails on about freedom for mages and the injustices of the Chantry. I agree with him to some extent – my father was an Apostate, after all, but his extremism worries me.

Varric calls him "Blondie" but he might as well call him "Broody". He and Fenris are often angry and screaming at each other when allowed to mingle. I find the concept of choosing one or the other difficult. But I doubt Fenris will self-destruct and I'm sure that Anders will.

Bah – thinking about Anders is not entertaining. It's depressing. So let me move on to Noodle. Noodle is my mabari and you asked about his name before. I don't think even Varric knows this one.

When I was 16 we were moving through villages near Denerim. But we were in sore need of supplies and my father decided that he would risk heading into the city to pick up what we needed. My brother Carver stayed back in the nearest village with Bethanny and my mother. I was the oldest and the best scout among us so I went along with my father. Denerim was the biggest city I'd ever been in but instead of enjoying it I just saw danger everywhere. Too many people to watch, too many exits to cover, a Chantry sat immediately beside the main gates as we came in.

It was only after a great deal of pointedly relaxed and unworried coaxing from my father that I was able to really take it all in. It was a big sloppy mess of people and things and commerce and goals and rather appealing – a place to get lost in.

We got most of our supplies quickly but while we moved from one portion of the market to another, we spotted a Mabari breeder and a pen of very young puppies. They were amazing, all different patterns and colors, a squealing, yelping mass of beasts playing and falling and running. My father talked to the breeder while I played with the dogs a bit and one in particular caught my attention. He was tawny colored all over except for a small patch on his chest of a deeper russet brown and black and much smaller than the rest. The breeder explained he was the runt and would probably be good for very little once he was fully grown. It was foolish to have gotten into the pen with them at all because I was sure there was no way that I'd be allowed to take him with us even if we could afford him.

My father had finished talking to the breeder as I reluctantly broke away from the pup who had been boring holes into me with his eyes. With a straight face by father asked me where the dog was. I thought he was just being cruel for no good reason. I pointed back at the pen without looking back. My father laughed then, which was a surprise, and said "well go get him, girl, before he loses his mind." I just stared at my father and he kept smiling and laughing, pulling me back over toward the dog who was wiggling around wildly, his hind quarters whipping back and forth in joy so fervent that he was nearly pulling himself off his own feet. My father squatted in front of the dog and said "He's like a noodle in a pot!"

And that's why he's named Noodle. It was a ridiculous name for a Mabari when I was 16 and it's a ridiculous name now. We tried to give him a different proper name, but nothing stuck – he would only answer to Noodle. He was the last name day present my father gave me before he took ill and I secretly think that the entire purpose of the trim to Denerim was to get me a mabari. I didn't see any money change hands – my father had been working as a mercenary for years. I assume that he'd taken his payment in the form of a puppy for me.

Carver was beside himself with jealousy when we got back to the village. He'd been coveting every Mabari we'd seen and he desperately wanted one to choose him but none ever had. Noodle has been with me ever since and Carver continued to build on that early resentment for years. The breeder swore he'd always be small, but Noodle quickly grew to full size and then some. He still wiggles like a noodle in a pot when he's excited, which is often.

Of course Varric would mention the dinner to you. Of course he would. My mother has been on me about finding a "suitable match" for a while now. Nevermind that half the noblemen in the city are completely frightened by me and would never allow their sons to marry "a barbarian" in the first place, my mother still has to try. She held a dinner party here at the house and invited a huge number of the nobility and their eligible children, both male and female, to give them additional incentive to show up in case they were already put off by me. Mother was thoroughly in her element and I was… not. I think I did well enough for most of the night. I had suffered under mother's hair and cosmetic assaults and agreed to wear the ridiculous pointy little Orlesian foot-torture shoes and the flouncy dress with the billowing skirt that just made me feel like I would topple over at any moment. And the corsetry! No wonder noble women in other countries are often said to rarely speak. They probably can't get enough air to do so. It never occurred to me that my waist was so ungainly that I should cinch it in under boning and layers of silk and then lash it all down. I felt like I looked ridiculous, but mother was breathless with excitement. The dress itself was a very pretty color, a very pale blue. But the bodice didn't come up far enough for my taste and in combination with the corset I spent the whole night trying to surreptitiously pull the whole thing up. There were no sleeves on the dress at all, just a little ruff of fabric that left my shoulders completely bare and encircled the tops of my arms. Then the skirt with the ruffles and the crinoline and the under support – not to sound like a fool but there was something in my mind screaming at me about how impractical it was. Where would I hide a dagger? What if I needed to run? How long would it take for me to trip on the many layers of scratchy fabric around my legs and fall face first into a ridiculously arranged plate of finger foods?

Apparently I didn't do too badly. I had a full dance card and was unfortunately put through the paces. All of the dances were slow, stately type dances. Nothing too elaborate, thankfully, but all very… close. I thought I'd have to burn the dress after the number of sweaty, pasty nobleman's hands that had been on it all night. Only one of them got too familiar for me to take but the top of the dress meant that there was far more talking directly into my chest than there was talking to my face. I felt more like something on display and less like a person.

Seamus was something of a relief, as I hadn't expected to see anyone there I actually knew. He rescued me from more than one stifling conversation and of course my mother was thrilled with that development. She didn't so much see Seamus, adorable boy obsessed with the Qunari, she saw Viscount's Son, eligible bachelor. Seamus is certainly an attractive young man and very nice. I appreciated his assistance and went out of my way on a few occasions to stay a little closer to him than absolutely necessary to ward off some of the others in attendance, especially Seneschal Brann's son. For someone who hates me as much as he does, Brann has managed to produce a son who has something of an unhealthy attraction toward me. Maybe it's just to upset his father. Either way, I don't want to end up anywhere alone with him any time soon. Seamus seemed to understand and whenever Brann's offspring started sidling over, Seamus would casually place a discrete arm around my waist. Nothing too familiar, but just enough to signal possessiveness. For all I know they have some sort of rivalry and I was being used as a pawn the whole night in some game.

It doesn't really matter – I got out of it unscathed and it made mother very happy that I even allowed her to dress me up. Bethanny would have been more than game for the whole affair, of course. I don't mind looking feminine, not at all. But I do mind the idea that I have some noble lineage and therefore should be put on display like a bolt of silk, haggled over. I don't think I have anything to offer any of these men except headaches and inappropriate jokes. And even though it would make mother very happy, I can't force myself to court and marry someone I don't even like. If that means I end up a spinster, then so be it.

Also this week I helped Aveline court someone. It's nice to see her express an interest in someone even though she is hopeless at expressing her romantic feelings. She actually babbled at him about blades for something approaching an hour. It was painful. But worth it to see her glowing face the next day.

I think I've run out of entertainment, Kingy. I'm sorry I haven't had much in the way to share this week. I have spent a great deal of my time in the Qunari compound , trying to broker some sort of understanding with the Arishok. He's continued to listen to what I have to say, but I can't change his mind. He seems frustrated that I don't leave Kirkwall, especially now that I could. He's seen my rise within the city, has noticed my titles, better equipment, and so forth. He can't understand why I don't take my mother and leave. When I tried to explain that, while Kirkwall was indeed a pit of vipers, there were few places in Thedas that were truly better, he took that as a sign of how correct the Qun was and how twisted humanity is.

From what Fenris has told me, it's extremely rare for the Arishok to spend any time at all explaining himself – let alone to a "bas". Some of the other ranks are more willing to discuss things and I've actually encountered a few Ashaad who have been downright chatty for Qunari. But they're… rare. If I come across a talkative Kossith they're typically Tal'Vashoth and most of what they have to say are things yelled at me as they try to run me through with spears. The personal interest the Arishok has seemed to take hasn't been lost on Fenris and he's warned me again and again to be careful. The Arishok just doesn't behave the way he has with me and it puts Fenris on edge.

Being stuck between the Qunari and the Chantry's fringe elements is the last place I want to be but I don't see any other choice. The Qunari don't need protection – but they do need a buffer. They've lasted here for years without yet causing a single death that wasn't provoked or in self-defense. The Tal'Vashoth are another story entirely and unfortunately most people do not draw a distinction between them and the Qunari – they see horns and assume they're all the same.

Public opinion has already painted me a "Horn head sympathizer" along with all manner of rumors as to what exactly the Arishok and I talk about – I'll leave you to imagine that yourself.

If I think of anything funny that I've left out here I'll send off another runner. Varric has employed nearly half the Undercity at this point, the vast majority of them Fereldens. In the meantime, enjoy the books and let me know if there is anything else I can do for you. While things remain tense in the city, I'm hoping that I can still convince the Viscount that he needs to take a harder line against the Chantry in this matter and get Elthina involved. We'll see how that goes.

Until then

Hawke

….

Alistair folded up the letter, conflicted. While that had certainly not been boring, he now just felt… troubled. He was more worried now than ever about the Qunari in Kirkwall. He also had visions that wavered from pleasant (Hawke at a fancy party), to very pleasant (Hawke's description of her dress). Also, the idea of Seamus playing rescuer was not one he was very fond of, but he was sure Hawke could take care of herself.

The mentions of her family had him intrigued. Her father had obviously died, but she also talked about Bethanny and Carver – her siblings? – in a way that made it sound as if they too were no longer with her. How much had she lost since she left Ferelden? It occurred to Alistair that he actually knew very little about her background outside of the fact that she had at one point fled Lothering and done well for herself once she landed in Kirkwall. While he was incredibly curious he also didn't want to cause her pain by bringing up unpleasant memories. It occurred to him that he could ask Varric, but that that might look as if he was spying on her indirectly and he certainly didn't want to give that impression.

He was also curious, despite himself, to know more about her Amell background. She was interesting and strong in a way that was very real and familiar to him. She didn't remind him of Solona at all. Solona was sweet and naïve in many ways and her grounding in the realities of the world came at a huge price. Watching her innocence torn away through conflict after conflict during the blight had been difficult and by the end, she was truly not the same woman. Solona was also slight, quiet, preferring to speak as little as possible and make each word truly count. Hawke seemed to spend words like she'd never run out, cajoled, charmed, flirted, and verbally danced in a way that he immediately felt drawn to. It reminded him of his own deflections and use of humor as a shield. Hawke was also bold in a way that felt… honest. Like she wouldn't lie to you even if you wanted her to. His life was completely absent of that kind of honesty. Maybe she wouldn't mind telling him about her family and what she'd been through. Maybe she would approach it with the same humor she approached everything else.

He took the book about the Hawke family's flight from Lothering with him to his cot and began to read. Varric's depiction of what Hawke looked like wasn't as far off as Hawke would have had him believe. True, some of the similes were a little heavy – "Cutting through grim-faced Hurlocks like a beautiful scythe through corrupted wheat stalks", for instance – but he could clearly picture her through this description. He had yet to see her engage in any kind of fight, but the way it was described seemed to fit her easy grace.

When he got to the part about Carver he felt his heart clench for her. The only thing he could relate it to was Duncan and Solona and they had at least been Grey Wardens. They had known that they were there to fight darkspawn, not some untested man, barely out of boyhood. But Bethanny made it to Kirkwall with them so… what had happened to her? Did it involve the Templars? And poor Aveline, to lose her husband to the taint in that way. The witch had been right about that at least – killing him was a mercy. Alistair had seen enough of the taint to know that no one should have to suffer through that kind of death.

He read far further into the night then he had meant to and was exhausted when he finally put aside his reading material and slept. All night he had dreams about fighting darkspawn and throwing himself in front of Hawke, shielding her from damage even as she continued to launch herself into the fight.


	5. Chapter 5

Over the next two weeks Alistair got a new message practically each day from one of Varric's runners. A whole barrage of tiny missives filled with jokes or stories or things Hawke's companions had said while they ran around the coast and through caves. She'd take up pages to describe the exact look on someone's face when they were relating a story, but sketch out an entire battle in just a few sentences, as if their nightly crawls through the city putting down gangs were the boring bits. What she chose to focus on in her letters was either incredibly telling about her character or something that Alistair was putting far too much time and energy into analyzing.

After many circular discussions, he and Teagan had finally agreed to change plans again and had cut back north to Visit Wycome after all and were just now en route back away from the city and heading toward Ostwick. He hadn't received a new message from Hawke in 6 days. While he was definitely disappointed, he also didn't think he should expect her to keep up the constant flow of entertaining tidbits just to please him. She was busy with many things and his trip had taken an unexpected detour besides. Teagan had begun to think that she was just making things up like her dwarven friend, unwilling to believe that anyone could have that many reasons to draw their daggers in a given week. Teagan was worldly in many ways, but had never travelled through or interacted with many of the rougher elements in any of the various places he'd lived. The concepts of crime, crushing poverty, even mercenary bands were nebulous to him – something he was sure existed but had little true experience with. Alistair, on the other hand, believed every word and was even sure Hawke had been leaving things out.

He and Teagan, riding side by side on their horses, were still snickering to each other about "Idunna, Exotic Wonder of the East" and Isabela's childishly brilliant combination of "apostate" and "prostitute" to create "Apostitutes!" when another breathless runner appeared bearing a note with Varric's seal instead of Hawke's. The young man who couldn't have been more than 12 panted out "Master Varric said I was to rush and that it went to your hand and none others, your Majesty." Alistair thanked him and directed him to the wagon further back in the line he could rest and recuperate. Teagan had a look of concern on his face that was a much milder version of the same look on Alistair's. Of all the news they'd received out of Kirkwall, none of it had been considered worth that sort of preamble.

Typically he waited until he was alone to open any of his personal letters, especially those from Hawke, but this one he opened immediately while they continued their forward progress.

_A – _

_Leandra was killed. Hawke's been hiding in the house for the last few days and won't let Bodahn let anyone in to see her. Broody is about to break in through a window soon if she doesn't give in. Aveline got in the night it happened but wasn't very hopeful about what she saw. I'll keep you updated. She hasn't said as much, but I know she likes you. I thought you should know about this._

_-V_

Teagan reached out for Alistair's arm, "What is it? Alistair you're white as a sheet, what happened?"

Alistair reread the note again "How long do you think it would take to get to Kirkwall if we went straight through?"

Teagan, Maker bless him, didn't ask why, he simply answered the question. "We expected to hit Ostwick tomorrow. It's another three days ride with a group this large between Ostwick and Kirkwall."

"And if we didn't have a group this large? Do you think we could cut that in half?"

"Okay Alistair, I do have to ask what's going on now."

Alistair just handed him the note and trotted forward to find Donal and ask him the same question.

Donal felt that, if they left now with a contingent of a few guards, the minimum number he'd allow the King to travel with, they could easily halve the time and get to Kirkwall in just under two days if they only stopped to let the horses rest. But it would be a hard ride and one he absolutely would not recommend.

Teagan had joined them at this point. "Alistair, I understand your urgency, but it makes much more sense for us to simply continue to Ostwick, make the one appearance you need to there, and then go on to Kirkwall as quickly as we can. If we cut our planned trip to Ostwick a little short you'll have more time in Kirkwall before we need to be back in Denerim."

Alistair considered this. His instincts screamed that he should be riding to Kirkwall immediately. Reading the message from Varric had shot him through with a level of panic he hadn't been prepared for. Teagan had already had a talk with him about reading too much into the correspondence with Hawke and that, for all she seemed like a very honest person, he should prepare himself for the possibility that she may not be what she appeared to be. He had known that Teagan was just trying to protect him but it had made him irrationally angry. Both of his sort-of-uncles regularly lapsed into this idea of Alistair as a child who was naïve and incapable of making his own decisions. His instincts about things had rarely been incorrect outside of a few cases. Zevran was one of those cases. He'd been proven utterly incorrect about his dislike of the assassin. His insistence that he would be a terrible king was another. And because of that, he felt he needed to be afforded some level of basic respect that he was unlikely to receive from either of them.

Alistair simply had a sense about Hawke. Nothing he could define. But he was sure that she had been as honest with him as she was capable of to this point. And he held no illusions that her version of honesty may be different from him.

As much as he hated to admit it – Teagan was right about their time table.

"Okay, we'll continue on to Ostwick as planned, but I'd like to hurry our pace. The sooner we can break off from there, the better I'll feel."

Teagan nodded "Agreed. We'll condense any necessary meetings into the one day. I'll send a message as soon as possible to the Regent's seneschal to rearrange any meetings they deem necessary. The truth is, I think they were stretching the visit to 3 days just because they could and not out of any pressing need. They're more than likely to be thankful for the hurried departure."

Alistair paused at the side of the road long enough to scribble off a return message for Varric, leaving it with one of his couriers to get it passed off to the closet of Varric's runners since the one who delivered it was passed out, exhausted, in the back of one of the wagons hauling camp supplies.

_V – _

_Thank you for your message. We have to stop in Ostwick, but will be in Kirkwall as soon as possible. Will send another message as soon as we know exact time of arrival, but may be 3 days at most. Please update me if there is any change. _

_-A_

…_.._

Arriving in Ostwick, it turned out that the Regent's primary point of concern was remaining in the good graces of Ferelden and being considered a viable shipping point into the Free Marches. Given that it was already the preferred location for shipping given its proximity to Amaranthine, the whole thing seemed a rather large waste of time to Alistair. He put on his best gracious King façade and sat through dinner and the conversations that followed it, relieved that the Regent apparently took his good word as assurance enough that the port business from Ferelden wasn't going anywhere under the new King.

That night he sent a note out to Varric asking for him to provide a few more details about what happened to Leandra so he could be prepared and not feel the need to ask them of Hawke directly when he arrived. He also asked if there was any change.

Sleep was fitful. It was truthfully a little absurd to think that he should need to be concerned. Hawke was surrounded by friends who cared about her and who would protect her and make sure she was taken care of. She wasn't under immediate threat of harm, nor was she some shrinking violet that needed protection. A family death would be difficult, of course, but - Maker keep him from saying this to her when he arrived – she'd been through it before. While that's not a muscle you want to have grown particularly strong, he was sure that when it came to grief Hawke may just be better equipped than most in the short term. No, his restlessness was purely his own mind's invention. Alistair was just always someone who did things, made things happened, moved and acted when movement and action were called for. The idea of having a night of rest was difficult for him to deal with when something needed to be done. He was the same with any number of things and often had this same reaction when there was a problem that needed puzzling out at court. It was far too easy for him to fall into stewing and stewing was not a good look for Alistair.

He woke up extremely early, before dawn had fully made its presence known in the eastern sky and was already pacing his room waiting for the announcement of their departure. To calm himself, he decided instead to write an update on their progress to Eamon, something he'd been meaning to do but putting off since Teagan was surely keeping his brother updated. In this letter he hadn't initially intended to mention Hawke, but he did anyway, although vaguely. He said that a woman of importance in Kirkwall needed his assistance with a personal matter and that he'd be delayed in returning to Denerim until the matter was resolved. He went on to say that he fully trusted Eamon to act on his behalf but that he would expect updates on any matters that extended beyond basic housekeeping to be sent to him to keep him apprised of the ongoing needs of the capital. He related the major points of importance and also asked Eamon to look into the possibility of providing support to Sebastian Vael of Starkhaven in his bid to retake his throne. Eamon wouldn't be happy with that, as Ferelden was already strapped in many ways, but securing Starkhaven and helping to stabilize it could only help them in the long run.

While a part of him was tempted to confide more in Eamon about his reasons for returning to Kirkwall, he held himself back. Over the last year, Eamon had become less needed on a day to day basis as Alistair wrested more of the daily control of the country from him, able to handle more and more confident in his abilities as time wore on. He knew it had left Eamon feeling as if he didn't have a strong place of importance at court. While Alistair didn't want to encourage those feelings, he also had no desire to give Eamon back too much control – especially when it came to matters that he felt were personal.

Eamon had pushed hard for him to marry Anora. He'd even convinced Solona at one point to explore the possibility. It was only Solona's extreme dislike of Anora that finally made her deviate from that plan. Eamon was a consummate politician and often dictated to others how they should behave and react despite the fact that he'd clearly let potentially damning emotion control his own life. He married an Orlesian woman when it had been political suicide to do so. He'd allowed that woman to push Alistair out of their home and make him sleep in the barn as a stable boy due to her own jealousies. It was also Isolde's stranglehold on him which led to Alistair eventually being sent to the Chantry. And then, the most damning of all, giving in to Isolde had led to the disaster that was Redcliffe during the blight. Maybe it was because of all these personal missteps that Eamon pushed so hard for Alistair to never make any of his own.

A marriage to Anora would have been a disaster. She was a beautiful woman built entirely out of ambition. And if rumors were true, she wouldn't have been capable of bearing him an heir even if he had been capable of sleeping with her in the first place. Those were rumors that Eamon himself had helped perpetuate – and as the years passed Alistair began to question their veracity more and more, given when he'd seen of the way Eamon operated. Anora was a strong ruler, definitely, and despite what her father had done she was still well liked by the people. But there would have been a Theirin on the throne in name only and Alistair would have been a puppet.

In his darker moments, he wondered if that wasn't exactly what Eamon had been hoping for – a pliant and easily controlled monarch with the right name and the right bloodline. Alistair hated thinking of Eamon in that way, but he sometimes didn't know how else to think of him.

His message completed, he peeked into the hall to hand it off to a courier who was stationed just outside and ask the courier to send up a maid with breakfast. He was, of course, starving. He had always had a prodigious appetite and the joining had only doubled it. Put him in a position of stress and he was likely to decimate an entire kitchen.

While he was finishing breakfast Teagan joined him to let him know that they'd be ready to leave shortly. The Reagent would see them off and then they could be on their way. "I've taken the liberty of asking the larger caravan to take their time and to have Donal set up smaller contingent of guards to stay with you and me. We'll ride ahead at speed."

Alistair was surprised and it must have shown on his face. "Thank you, Teagan, you didn't have to do that – I can be patient you know. But I do appreciate it."

"There is no need to thank me, Alistiar. I've never seen you react this way to anyone before outside of Solona during the blight. I had thought that they two of you must have been in a relationship with how fiercely protective you were until I saw her with Zevran."

Alistair shook his head "No, I just felt protective of Solona because she was my friend. I only made it through the blight because of her. We were the last two Wardens in the country facing down impossible odds. We became very close because of it. She and Duncan are the closest things to real family I've ever had."

Teagan nodded his head at this, but Alistair suddenly felt ashamed that he'd said that. "That's not what I mean Teagan. I mean… there's a difference between the family you're born with and the family you make. Solona, Wynne, Lelianna, Ogrhen… they made me realize that. You and Eamon will always be family to me, but it's not quite the same thing."

"I understand that, Alistiar, there is no need to apologize. I'm only sort of your uncle, remember." Teagan smiled and there was something sad behind it. "I always wished we could have made sure you were raised differently. You'd have been happier as a child if you'd actually been allowed to live with people who didn't know anything about your background. But I also wish that Maric would have recognized you. Eamon doesn't agree with me, of course, but I think he is still hung up on this idea that Rowan would have been hurt by it while I never thought she would."

"You don't think Rowan would have been upset?"

"Oh well, I think she may have been. But I always had the sense that Rowan and Maric married because they were supposed to be in love, not because they actually were. They were uniting a country together and that unity was far more important than their personal feelings. Maric was just not as good at pretending as Rowan."

Alistair snorted "Sounds like I inherited something from dear old dad after all."

Teagan's smile was more genuine this time "You inherited everything that was important from him and very little that wasn't. And the most important part of him was that he was his own man, for better or worse. Don't let anyone else tell you who you should be. Even me."

Alistiar chuckled "I see someone woke up on the sage side of the bed this morning."

Teagan laughed at that and shook his head. "Seriously, Alistair, I've been proud of you for a long time. But more and more I realize it isn't pride in you as a young man, but it's pride in you as my king."

Alistair was honestly touched. "Thank you, Teagan. That means a lot to me."

Teagan clapped his hands together "Well, now that our morning affirmations of love and fealty are completed, what do you say to getting on the road, hmm?"

Alistair was already out of his chair and striding toward the door.


	6. Chapter 6

They made good time the first day and were able to camp no more than a day's ride from Kirkwall. With the supply carts left behind, Alistair, Teagan, Donal, and 3 of his chosen Guards set up lean-tos in the tree line. Teagan was the only one of his court Alistair could ever imagine camping this way. As an avid hunter, he would disappear into the woods with a few men for days at a time and come back hauling venison enough to share among the Bann's neediest. He was a very hands-on ruler of his Bann, spending the majority of his time among his people as a daily part of their lives.

Alistair felt more at ease that night at camp than he had at any point during their journey so far with a whole army of guards and luxurious encampments. It felt good to sit among the guards at the fire and talk about their wives and children, tell bawdy stories about his times during the blight, and just enjoy the fire and the night and the stars. It made him feel old beyond his years being so wistful for a time that felt so long ago but was really only a few years.

Sleep that night was easier since he felt he was finally moving toward something and not just sitting and waiting. They got an early start and were able to make Kirkwall just before nightfall, leaving off their horses at the stable by the main gates. He hadn't heard back from Varric and so, against Teagan's protests, decided that they would head into Lowtown to find The Hanged Man and Varric. Alistair was a little shocked at how different Lowtown and Hightown were from each other. Initially he'd just assumed that they were altitude-based designations, but it was clear as soon as he was in the market area, where most of the merchants were packing up for the day, that there was a completely different social strata at work here. Just as he preferred mingling with the working people in Denerim, he immediately felt more comfortable in Lowtown than he had previously in Hightown. These were people he understood and who he felt an inherent need to be understood by.

The Hanged Man was easy to find without even having to resort to asking for directions. The enormous carved inverted man hanging from the entrance, the raucous sounds of drinking and dancing, and the heady smell of spilled ale marked the place even from a distance. When the door swung open it was like having a brief portal into another, brighter, happier place fall open upon the quickly emptying streets. Teagan still looked uncomfortable, but Alistair couldn't help the grin spread across his face.

As soon as they stepped in the door, he could actually picture Hawke here and picture the group of her companions sitting around one of the tables playing cards and giving each other grief. He took a quick look around but didn't see Varric, and started to head to the bar but realized it looked ridiculous to have this whole group of guards following him around. He'd even made sure that he'd changed out of his usual armor and was wearing some lighter splint mail so he didn't look quite so… regal. He asked Donal and his guards to grab a table for them and to just keep an eye on things from a distance. In this type of setting, Alistair could certainly handle himself should anyone try to start something and Donal himself had been his lone guard on many occasions when he visited taverns in Denerim.

Donal grumbled at him, but gave in. He and Teagan headed to the bar and he was just about to ask the bartender if he'd seen Varric around but was stopped short by a hand on his arm and a warm body pressed fully up against him "Hello there, Warden," she purred out at him. "Long time no see."

Alistair turned his head just enough to be sure of who he was talking to and wasn't wrong "Hello, Isabela. You're looking… well." He only expected her because Hawke had talked about her. But the few years since he'd seen her at the Pearl had only added to her allure. She was fuller, and less fully clothed, obviously having done well as a captain given the heavy hanks of beaten gold adorning her neck and ears.

Teagan had gone an interesting color and was openly gaping at her. "You are too, Alistair. Who's your fishy friend here? He's *cute*."

"This is Teagan. Teagan, may I introduce Isabela. Solona and I met her during the blight and she's a friend of Hawke's."

"Very nice to meet you, Isabela," Teagan had recovered enough to respond but was still vaguely red.

Alistair turned fully toward Isabela who took it as an invitation to push up against him so that he had to look directly down to see her face. He kept his hands up in a position of surrender to make it clear that he had no intention of touching her, like she was an overly friendly cat with a skin condition. "Well, hello, uh… I'm looking for Varric. I sent a message to him a few days ago but we've been travelling in a smaller contingent and it may have been routed to the larger group. Have you seen him?"

Isabela was still pressed up against him, looking right up into his face and idly toying with the armor across his chest as she spoke. "Varric? Short man? Chest Hair? Sure I've seen him around. But why worry about him? Buy me a drink and we can talk."

Alistair was game for a little flirting but he really did want to find Varric. He put his hands on Isabela's arms and gently pushed her back. "While that would be lovely, I have to take you up on that offer another time. I'm looking for Varric."

The bartender spoke up at that point; having overheard the conversation "Varric's up in his room, just got in a bit ago and is probably sleeping. But you can give it a try. Directly across from the top of the stairs."

Isabela scowled at the bartender "I really hate you, Corff."

"You'll get over it when you need a refill, seahag."

"Teagan, please, have a drink and keep Isabela company." Alistair angled Isabela toward Teagan who looked like Alistair had just casually suggested he wrestle a dragon. Isabela took a few hip swaying steps toward Teagan and hooked a finger into the top of his shirt to pull him toward a table "Come with me, little man. I'll keep you occupied."

Alistair considered that a successful result and caught Donal's eye and indicated with a finger that he was headed up the stairs. Donal nodded and watched him go.

Alistair made his way through the crowd and up the stairs to knock at the door. At first there was no answer, so he knocked again and heard a growl from the other side of the door "You had better have a good reason for bothering me or the hallway is getting a new stain," just as the door swung open.

Varric stood blinking up at Alistair for a second, obviously exhausted. He recovered his composure quickly and stood aside to let him in "Ah, I didn't expect you so soon. I just sent a runner out with a message for you. You made good time."

"We left behind a big portion of the caravan so we could get here sooner. I was going to go directly to Hawke's estate but realized as we were coming in the gates that I still had no idea what happened or how she's been or – more importantly, where in the void she actually lives."

Varric snorted at that "It's a big house with her family crest on the door, you can't miss it, but I can take you there if you like."

Alistair put up a hand, "Just directions will work. So… you uh… you live here?" He'd started casting his eyes around the room. There were items here that were obviously of dwarven make. The table, the chairs, and some of the wall hangings were at least in dwarven style, though he saw that they depicted "The Twins" and the Gallows and other areas of Kirkwall. It was a strange collection of styles and items and a great many books collected on the various shelves. It looked… cozy. Alistair couldn't think of another word for it.

"Yep, this is my office and my home. You want a drink?" Varric answered, shuffling toward a cabinet and grabbing a bottle and a glass.

"No, thanks, I'm a little too full of energy for drinking at the moment. Can you just fill me in on what happened? You said she was killed, but that's all. Was it some random murder or something else?"

Varric poured out two drinks "Trust me, you're going to want this."

"Maker, that bad? Was Hawke there?"

Varric sat down "Let the story teller tell it, kid. I'll get through the whole thing and then you can ask questions."

And Varric started to tell him everything, starting from as far back as Emeric, the Templar who was so sure that there was a killer taking women, leaving clues. Emeric passed those clues he'd gathered on to Hawke nearly two years ago and she'd puzzled through them, feeling sure that Emeric was right – something about the whole thing was more than random. The women selected were too specific, the timing was too precise. There was also the connection between the flowers the women had received. He recounted how they'd gone to the foundry and found nothing living, but that Hawke swore she'd seen a retreating figure despite the lack of other exits. He told Alistair about the bag of body parts they'd found – bones and a hand. That's when Alistair took his first drink. Varric shook his head "we all missed the trap door. Three rogues and a very sneaky warrior and we all missed the maker-damned trap door. Isabela can spot a trap in the dark at 30 paces. Hawke can feel someone looking at her funny from across a crowded room and land a dagger in their forehead before you can blink. And none of us saw the trap door"

He went on to tell Alistair about the man that Emeric suspected, how shady he was, how Hawke hadn't believed his story and told him so. He told Alistair about the protracted fight through the man's estate, fighting through demons and shades until Hawke finally reached the man to cut him down. He told Alistair about the woman they'd rescued, Alessa.

He explained how busy Hawke had been with the Qunari and the Viscount and the endless requests on her time. How she already hadn't been sleeping very well, plagued with the worry that the well-being of an entire city was sitting on her shoulders if she made a single misstep with the Arishok. About how she'd spent all her free time learning Lequne with Fenris and sparring and improving as much as possible, trying to be as good as possible to protect the whole city against something she could feel coming. That none of that worry ever ended up in Hawke's letters to him was unsurprising but still a little… disappointing. He wanted to know, even if it wasn't pleasant, what was going on with her.

And then he told Alistair about Gamlen showing up complaining that Leandra had missed her weekly visit. Bodahn mentioned a suitor and the flowers she'd received. Hawke had known immediately, had run screaming to Fenris's house, scaring him half to death and then running through the city to Lowtown to find Gamlen while Fenris got Varric.

How they'd talked to the urchin who had seen her mother and followed the blood trail – a blood trail – Hawke nearly whimpering every time they found another splatter. How it was the same foundry and how only this time they'd actually seen the trap door.

"Leandra's head was on someone else's body. And that mage Quentin was ranting about how he'd touched the face of the Maker and how love was the strongest force in the universe and Leandra's face on that wrong body just kept lurching forward toward Hawke." Varric's voice was hollow has he recounted everything as if the telling was draining something from him.

"I've seen Hawke mad. I've seen Hawke crazed. I've seen Hawke with bloodlust to spare. I've never seen Hawke fight like that. There was nothing left of Quentin when she was done with him. It was a stinking pile of bones and blood and clothes, not even a hint of a person left. And then, if that wasn't bad enough – then there was her mother."

Alistair listened as Varric recounted their last moments together, Hawke holding onto the body of a stranger with her mother's head and her mother's voice saying she was proud, saying how she loved her, saying she was sorry she'd be alone now. Alistair grabbed the bottle and took a long swallow.

Varric was quiet for a few minutes. "She sat there with the body until we pulled her away. Aveline showed up with the guard to gather evidence, burn the bodies. The place was packed with Quentin's failed experiments. Probably close to 20 women who had gone missing to fuel his madness. He'd been living there in with the corpses and the lye and the stinking lavender small all over everything like some dainty perfume could wash away all that rot. Had a shrine to his dead wife who he had been trying to rebuild. Leandra was the face he'd been waiting for – his last piece."

"We got Hawke back home and then like idiots we all left her there alone, assumed that's what she would want. Gamlen told me that they had an argument after she'd told him the truth about what happened to Leandra. He'd said some things about mages and the magic in their family being a curse and then stormed out, the unrepentant ass. He never did a good thing in his life and still decided to claim all that pain for himself. Aveline saw her that night once she was done at the foundry and Hawke refused to talk to her. Aveline apologized for not taking Emeric more seriously sooner and she meant it. She feels like she could have prevented this. Hawke didn't even react, just sat there on her bed staring at the fire. That was over a week ago and that's the last time anyone has seen her. If she's come out at all it's been when everyone else has finally tried to sleep. Fenris hasn't left her house. Bodahn keeps trying to convince her to open up the door. We know she's still kicking around in there. Today I heard her talking. We just… don't know what to do, really."

"I know this is going to sound really stupid – but in a lot of ways Hawke is the only thing that keeps any of us together. For the last 3 years she's been the only thing we all have in common. With her falling to pieces we all feel a little lost. We've talked through all kinds of plans but can't come to any kind of decision."

Alistair took one more swig as he digested all of this. "So no one has tried to open the door to her room? No one has pushed it?"

Varric scoffed "Oh no, we did try two days in. She nearly took off Isabela's hand when Rivaini picked the lock and was reaching inside to feel around in the dark. Isabela's been drinking since then. Anders healed her up on the spot but she took it kind of personally."

"Fenris came in through a window to her room two nights ago and was greeted with a Hawke who he said "looked like a demon" holding a dagger to his throat and pushing enough to draw blood until he backed out the way he'd come in. Since she even attacked Fenris, which no one thought she would do, no one else has tried. Anders has been sitting at her door talking to her but I think that's just apt to make her more likely to stay in her room. She takes in the food and water we leave, though there's no way to know if she's actually eating anything. She doesn't have a deathwish, she just won't leave the room and refuses to talk to anyone. She hasn't even let Noodle in, no matter how much he sits outside the door and howls and whines. Poor damned dog."

Alistair stood "Alright, well, give me directions to her house. Someone has to stop this."

Varric pulled out a quill and a piece of paper and drew a quick map "You sure you want to do this? You're a king, you know. You really want to die over a crazy woman?"

Alistair shrugged "Sounds better than dying for a lot of other reasons I can think of."

Varric chuckled "I see why she likes you." Varric peered up at Alistair then "She does you know… like you. Not that she'd admit it. I'm not going to give you the "big brother" speech here, since she'd never had one and she doesn't need one now – but don't promise her anything you can't follow through on, Kingy."

A little surprised, Alistair nodded "I'm glad to know that someone cares enough about her to warn me." He wasn't sure what to say, exactly since he was sure that more was expected. So he was honest. "I like her too. That's why I'm here."

Varric handed over the map "What are you going to do?"

Alistair answered honestly "I'm not sure. If it comes to it, we've enough brute force to get that door down easily. I don't want it to come to that, but she's not staying in that room alone for another night." Even to his own ears he sounded resolute. Which was good – because that's exactly what he felt.

Varric just looked at Alistair for a moment "You're not at all what I expected from a king, Alistair."

"I've heard that before, Varric – I'm sure you'll let me know later if it's a compliment or not. Thanks for this. After you get some sleep, please check by the house. I might need some help. I'm not sure yet."

"I'll be there in a few hours."

Alistair left the room and headed back down the stairs and started toward Donal but saw Teagan still in Isabela's clutches. She was on his lap, wiggling around and running her fingers through his hair. He looked like a man about to break every vow he'd ever made. Alistair diverted toward them instead. "I'm sorry, Isabela, I need Teagan to come with me for a while."

Isabela gave a big exaggerated pout "But we were just getting acquainted"

"I'll bring him back tomorrow and you can continue where you left off."

Teagan spluttered at that but Alistair didn't respond, as he gently moved Isabela off Teagan's lap and pulled Teagan to his feet, taking him by the arm and pulling him along toward Donal. "We're headed back up to Hightown. I want to get there before it gets too much later, so we need to head out."

Donal and his men were up immediately and the whole group moved toward Hightown, following Varric's map. Along the way, Teagan finally regained the ability to speak "Isabela said she met you during the blight but you refused to sleep with her."

Alistair nodded "She wanted me to come back to her ship with her. We met her at the Pearl and Zevran seemed to know her quite well. Apparently he'd killed her husband and they'd become uh… friends… after that."

Teagan shook his head "You know, I thought I knew everything there was to know about you, Alistair but you still amaze me. You turned down that woman while you were completely unattached and she still seems out of sorts about it."

Alistair shrugged "I had more important things on my mind."

Teagan remained quiet, still shrugging off the effects of a drunken Isabela in his lap, as they made their way to Hightown just as the last of the light was leaving the sky. Varric was right, the Hawke estate stood out in the Keep courtyard with its prominent Amell crests flanking the door.


	7. Chapter 7

Having located the house, Alistair immediately knocked on the door. It took only a moment for it to swing open and Bodahn's harried, tired face peeked out. Pushing the door wide, Bodahn shuffled backward and bowed low. "I'm glad to see you're here, Your Majesty. It's been a terrible mess this week and Messere Hawke has refused to leave her room. She and Lady Amell were very close, the last family she had. I… I'm afraid I have no idea what to do."

As Alistair, Teagan, and the guards made their way through to the sitting room, the whole house seemed to be holding its breath. It was a spacious house, on par with the Viscount's estate. But unlike the Viscount's estate it wasn't ostentatiously decorated. Simple furniture, arm chairs, armoires and desks. A few simple tapestries adorned the walls. Alistair heard the Mabari wailing up the stairs and further back in the house. Sandal stood near the foot of the stairs, arms wrapped around the newel, looking somber; his characteristic glittering eyes seemed worried. An impossibly tiny elven girl walked forward, her eyes cast to the floor, "May I offer you something to drink or somewhere to rest?"

Alistair shook his head as he removed his gloves "No, thank you. My name is Alistair, are you Orana?"

The girl shook like a leaf, seeming petrified that someone knew her name. "I.. Yes, I'm Orana. Are you here to help Mistress Hawke?" She met his eyes for a fleeting moment, still scared but hopeful.

Alistair tried to keep his tone gentle as possible in the face of the girl's fear "Yes, I'm going to try. Bodahn, where is her room? I'm going to try to get her out of there."

"It's just this way, your Majesty," Bodahn gestured to the stairs and lead them up, Alistair laying a gentle hand on Sandal's shoulder as he passed, and across a gallery to a door where a bedraggled looking man in mage's robes sat slumped against the door frame, looking exhausted and about to fall asleep. The mage started and jumped to his feet as Alistair approached.

"What are you doing here? You shouldn't be here, Bodahn why did you let anyone in?"

Bodahn kept his tone neutral "Messere Anders, this is his Royal Highness, King Alistair of Ferelden. He's a friend of Messere Hawke and is here to help."

Anders turned and leveled a narrow-eyed look at Alistair for a moment before his eyes went wide "Ah, so it is. I uh… met you once before."

Alistair remembered "You were the mage Warden Commander Caron conscripted at Vigil's Keep. I remember. Hawke mentioned you in a letter but apparently you've never told her much about your background."

Anders looked down "Yes, well, I would have but it's… complicated. Why uh… Why are you here?"

"Varric sent me a message to let me know what happened. I'm here to help."

"What makes you think you can do more than the rest of us have?" Anders puffed up, obviously annoyed that Alistair was there at all.

"Look, Anders is it? Anders, you look exhausted. You obviously haven't had any luck getting her to leave her room, so why not let someone else try? It doesn't matter who gets her to come back to the living, just so long as someone does it, right?"

Anders didn't seem convinced but threw his arms up, "Fine, give it a try if you think you'll have any better luck."

"Well it couldn't be much worse," Alistair said with a wry tilt to his voice. He hadn't minded Anders the first time he'd encountered him. He'd seemed like any other smartass mage with a chip on his shoulder. But this time something was different, those sometimes forgotten Templar senses coming to life under his skin, and Alistair just didn't feel quite comfortable around him.

Anders huffed and backed away from the door. Alistair looked down at the Mabari that blocked most of the doorway. This was the runt of a dog Hawke had received as a name day gift? The thing was huge – bigger than Xerxes and most of the other Mabari at Ostegar. Alistair had poor luck with Xerxes, but he had to get into that door. He was determined to make this work.

Alistair knelt in front of the huge dog "Noodle?" Maker, it felt ridiculous calling this beast something as silly as "Noodle". "I know you're here to protect your mistress. I know you can tell she's upset and that she needs help. I'm going to try to get her to come out now, but I need to get past you to get to the door. I'm not going to hurt her. I promise you that no one here is going to harm her. I'd like for you to trust me."

Anders snorted behind him "Good luck with that, I haven't been able to get him to move and I've been trying for days. He leaves to eat and relieve himself in the garden then comes right back."

Alistair tried to keep his temper, closing his eyes, taking a deep breath, and ignoring the mage. He kept his attention on the dog, willing it to believe that he meant no harm and that he was only there to help.

Noodle regarded him impassively for a long moment, obviously sizing him up. He then huffed and stood stiffly as if he'd been in the same position for a long time. The massive beast moved a few feet away, clearing the door. Alistair couldn't help himself; he threw a smirk over his shoulder at Anders "Maybe you just needed to ask nicely."

Alistair asked the rest of his guard to go make themselves comfortable downstairs, and asked Bodahn to see to anything they might need. They'd been travelling all day and he was sure they were hungry. In truth, he really just didn't want to have this conversation in front of everyone but Anders just stood back a few feet, arms crossed over his chest. He clearly wasn't going anywhere.

Alistair approached the door and knocked. He didn't expect an answer and didn't get one. He knocked again and said "Hawke, it's Alistair. I got a message from Varric and came as soon as I could get here. I'm sorry it took so long." He paused. He wasn't really sure what he was doing outside of talking to a door. She could be asleep. She could be pointedly ignoring him. She could be pressed against the door listening intently. He really had no way of knowing. So Alistair thought about all the things he would have told her if he were writing to her. He began haltingly talking about his trip, the small moments, the triumphs, the setbacks. At some point, the rest of the world fell away and he just closed his eyes, leaning his forehead against the door. He forgot Teagan and Anders standing behind him. He told her about Ostwick and the weather and about how old and gray the main keep had been. He told her about the Lord Regent and his funny little nose and how red it was, like it was lit from the inside. He told her about camping along the road in the lean-tos and how wistful it had made him and how much he realized he'd missed just having people to talk to. He forgot that he was really trying desperately to get some kind of response, anything, out of her on the other side of the door. He let that all fall away and just focused on talking to her as if they were face to face and he could watch her reactions, imagine the points at which she would smile or laugh. And that eventually became more and more real. He thought he could actually hear her laugh a little at some ridiculous thing he'd said, and then a murmur of a reply he couldn't really make out. His eyes slammed back open. She responded. She was listening.

"Hawke, could you perhaps open the door and we could continue this conversation? I can't hear you so well and the wood grain is going to cause a ridiculous pattern in my forehead if I don't move soon."

Another small sound.

"No really, I'm serious. You're going to ruin all my future wedding prospects because no one will want to marry King Mahogany Head. You'll go down in history as the ruiner of the Theirin bloodline and then how will you feel? I would guess that you would feel incredibly silly."

After a long pause during which he heard nothing and was sure he's lost her again, the lock clicked. He heard "Just You" from the other side of the door and looked back at Teagan, who smiled at him and nodded. Just as his hand touched the door knob he felt someone rush up behind him. He spun around and stopped Anders with his hand to the man's chest. "She said just me. Don't push it. You should go get some sleep," he pushed the mage back just slightly, gently.

Anders had a look on his face that was a cross between righteous indignation and hurt, but he didn't try to push at the door or get past Alistair again. He turned the knob and stepped into the room, closing the door behind him and turning the lock again. She had said just him and he meant to keep that way for now. The room was completely black except for what light came in through the one window that wasn't curtained off. The window was open and he saw her silhouetted in the light, leaning against the window frame and staring out into the night. He couldn't make out her features, but he could see she was still wearing armor. Had she really not changed out of the armor the whole time she'd been in here?

He moved slowly toward her "Thank you for that rescue. There may be hope for my face after all."

He stopped several feet away from her, making sure not to crowd her. He just stood there and waited to see if she'd say anything and was finally rewarded when she spoke, quietly and a little hoarsely, like she hadn't used her voice in a while. "Thank you for getting Anders to shut up."

Alistair laughed at that, honestly relieved that she was even willing to talk, more relieved that she was willing to joke. "Yes, well, it was my duty as a king to make sure that ended."

As his eyes adjusted to the light he saw that her armor was a mess as was the rest of her. She'd been in here for a full week and hadn't managed to clean the blood off her own hands or face. It had been at least a week, by his reckoning. She stood with her arms crossed over her chest, hugging herself in a bunched up, tense way, though she seemed to sway just slightly on her feet, as if her knees had been locked too long and she was wavering.

"How long has it been since you've eaten anything? Had anything to drink?"

She didn't respond immediately, just continued to stare out the window though he could tell by the lack of focus in her eyes that she wasn't truly seeing anything. He was sure he wasn't going to get an answer at all and had started to look around the room when his flagging patience was rewarded with a croaking whisper. "I can't go out there. The whole house smells like her and I can't stand it. They keep asking me to come out and they don't understand."

Alistair nodded even though she wasn't looking at him and even if she was she probably couldn't see it in the dark. "I'm not here to pressure you. We can take this at your pace. If you need to spend another week in here, I'm game. But I'm also not going to leave, and I snore, you should know that about me."

He saw just the corner of her mouth twitch, something he was sure would have bloomed into a grin under different circumstances.

"Would it be alright with you if I lit a candle?"

She nodded.

Alistair moved around the room in the dark, groping blindly for where he thought a light might be and eventually found a candle in a sconce on the wall and matches on a nearby desk. The match was harsh and bright, stinging his eyes, but after they adjusted he was able to take in the state of the room. She hadn't thrown anything around, which might be a good sign or a bad sign. She'd been sleeping in the bed and it was tangled and filthy, covered in dried blood and bits of…things. There was a tray with a plate of barely touched food and an empty pitcher sitting on the floor near the door. Not enough evidence to account for a whole week of food and enough remnants to make it clear that she hadn't really been feeding herself. He took in the room completely before he turned his eyes toward Hawke herself, delaying the inevitable, afraid of what he'd see there.

She was in the leather armor he'd seen her in before, but instead of full length trousers, she had on short leather pants and tall boots, leaving just a few scant inches of skin visible between the two. There might have been a skirt piece that went over this that she'd already removed. Her entire chestpiece was covered in dried blood and dirt. Her hair, her face, her hands, all in a similar condition except for clean streaks that ran from her eyes down to her jaw where enough tears had flowed to wash away the grime. The one hand he could see also had broken skin along the knuckles and she had some scrapes along her jaw line and deep bruises on her upper arms. The back of her armor had some slashed areas that actually looked burnt. Her hair had been pulled into a ponytail at one point but it had long since come loose, sticking together in the shape of a ponytail due to the sheer amount of blood and filth soaked into it.

He chanced walking closer to her now. He reached out and tried to brush some of the hair back from her face but it immediately fell back forward in a heavy clump.

"Not to cause any offense, my dear, but I think I liked that blue dress you wore to the gates much better than your current ensemble."

Again, her lip quirked up in something that might have been the start of a smile but her eyes remained vacant and distant. Alistair felt encouraged. It was something, some kind of reaction. She was trying. And that was enough to make him try more.

"I'll be right back, okay. I'm not going anywhere. You let me in and now you're not getting rid of me."

He looked around the room and saw a door on the other wall. Giving it a shot, he found that it was what he'd been hoping for – a bathing chamber. There was a fireplace, buckets, and a pump as well as a large stone tub. He set to getting the fire started and while it caught, pumped water into the buckets, getting them all filled. He was moving automatically now, not really thinking of what he should be doing or what plan he might have. He didn't have a plan at all. Just take one thing at a time and hope that somehow it all worked. Once he was sure the fire was caught, he moved the buckets over to the hearth to get them warming. He moved out of the room and grabbed the privacy screen he'd seen in the bedroom, noting that she was where he'd left her, still looking out the window. He took the privacy screen into the bathroom and set it so that it would block the view into the main room, but still allow someone to get into the bath so that the door could be left open. He wasn't going to leave her in any closed room alone until he was sure that she was on the mend.

While he waited for the water to heat up, he stripped the sheets and blankets off the bed and piled them up nearby, rolling them all into a bundle that he tied off with the corners of the base sheet.

He moved back over to where Hawke stood. "You wear padding under your armor, right? Probably some kind of lightweight shirt or something as well?"

Hawke didn't respond at first but eventually gave a barely perceptible nod.

"Okay, well, I'm going to take your chestpiece off of you." He moved his hands toward the buckles along the sides and continued to talk while he worked. "Consider me your personal valet for the evening. You're nobility now, you should get used to this kind of treatment. I counted no fewer than 5 valets at the Viscount's estate. Which seems ridiculous to me. After having met the Viscount I can't imagine that he ever wears anything other than his official robes. And Seamus certainly doesn't need help getting into his fancy little doublets and trousers. Or, well, maybe he does."

She'd seemed to respond when he talked so he was now using it as a feint. Keep her focused on the nice babbling man and maybe she won't notice everything else.

"I myself only have one valet and half the time he pouts at me when he realizes I've already armored up without him."

He'd succeeded in getting the chest piece and upper body padding off and saw that the back of her armor had been ripped through and burnt. As it came away and he pulled it gently off over her head he saw that her shirt was stuck to her back along the wound that had been left as if she'd been both slashed and burnt, the skin and the shirt melted together. He worked on her pauldrons and vambraces and then crouched, working on her knee pads and unlacing her boots. He did all of this slowly, gently, as if she'd break if he applied too much pressure or moved too quickly. Once the rest of the pieces of strapped armor were off, he put his hand behind her knee to lift her leg slightly and she complied, completely docile. He slid her boot and sock off and then repeated the procedure on her other leg.

He'd experienced plenty of battlefield shock, just never any that had extended for this long.

"Right, well now that that's taken care of, I'm going to check the water in the other room and get a bath started for you. I'll be right back."

He waited for a reply just in case, but didn't get one. Alistair headed back into the bathing chamber and found that the buckets he'd lined up were very warm now. He dumped them out into the tub and then adjusted the temperature with the cold buckets he'd left set aside. It was very warm, but not so warm that it would cause additional pain to the burn on her back.

Coming back out to the room, he noticed that she'd moved on her own. Not a lot, but she'd shifted over and was now standing centered in the window, hands on either side of the window frame. Standing there in just a thin undershirt and the leather short pants she seemed… smaller, somehow. Her leather armor was thin, not bulky, but perhaps it simply made her stand taller. Having it off allowed her to slump in on herself. He moved over to her and very gently touched her shoulder, "I'd like you to come with me now and get in the bath."

It took her a moment to respond, but she turned and followed him into the bathing chamber and around the screen. "You'll need to leave your shirt on for now because it's stuck to your back. Don't try to take it off. Just take off everything else and get settled. I'll be just in the other room. You'll know I'm there because I'll be the one talking constantly."

Again, there was no response, but she nodded.

He left her in the bathing chamber and very quietly unlocked and opened the door just enough to poke his head out. Bodahn, Teagan, and Orana stood outside the door with an agitated Anders pacing behind them. "Right, I need some clean sheets, and some general healing supplies – a poultice or two, some clean bandages. I haven't noticed anything yet that needs stitches, but it wouldn't hurt to have needle and thread just in case. Also, something warm to drink, tea or warm cider."

Bodahn and Orana were already in motion when Anders spoke up "She's injured?"

"Not severly. I can handle it I think."

The mage scoffed at him "You think. What in Thedas makes you qualified to determine things like that?"

Alistair's patience was nearing its end with the mage. It had been a long time since anyone had been so blatantly snide toward him and he found that the intervening years had made him unwilling to put up with it. Morrigan at least had a point sometimes – he had been incredibly weak and incredibly naïve, but he was no longer that man.

Stepping slightly out of the room and holding the door closed behind him, Alistair leveled a very serious look at Anders "You of all people should know better than to think that Grey Wardens are helpless without a mage to heal their wounds for them. Do not try me – you will find yourself unequal to the task."

Alistair then ducked back in and passed the tray from the floor out to Teagan who took the moment of Anders standing there flapping his mouth mutely to ask "I take it she's aright then?"

"No, she's not, but she will be." Alistair deposited the bundle of old sheets and Hawke's armor outside the door as well before casting his eyes to Noodle "She'll be better soon, Noodle. I promise. You just can't see her just yet. But you'll be the first when she's ready."

Orana reappeared with sheets and Alistair took them from her "Thank you, Orana, I'll remake the bed. You're probably going to be best off just burning these" he gestured to the bloodied sheets he'd set outside the door. "I can't imagine she'll have fond memories of the armor either, but for now just plan on cleaning it." He wanted everything still touched by blood out of the room when Hawke emerged from the bath.

"Teagan, I'll be staying here tonight and maybe even for a few nights, I'm not sure yet. Please ask Bodahn if there is room in the house for you and the guard and if there isn't where you might stay."

"You're staying here? In her room? Are you… are you sure about that, Alistair? That hardly seems appropriate."

Anders, still standing there, but mercifully mute, went red and his hands clenched, acting every inch the outraged protector.

Alistair shook his head "What's appropriate in this situation is that she not be alone for a second longer and if that means I stay locked in this room with her for a week talking at her until she flees then that's what I'll do. I know what I'm doing, Teagan, don't worry." His tone was one that forestalled any denial. It was the tone of a man whose mind was made up.

Bodahn had just made it to the top of the stairs with a small basket of healing items in one hand and a large steaming mug in the other, both of which Alistair took with a nod.

Teagan sighed, "I'll trust your judgment on this then, Alistair. I'll get Donal and the men squared away."

"Thank you, Teagan, I appreciate it."

Alistair then closed the door, locking it, and took a moment to remove his armor, stripping down to just his long breeches and the loose short shift he wore, piling his armor at the foot of the bed.

From the other side of the screen he could see Hawke's head and shoulders above the edge of the tub. He picked up a bathing linen and walked toward her with it raised, draping it into the water and across her lap to keep her lower half covered. The water was already working to loosen some of the grime on her hands which floated in the water, but she hadn't actually moved much of her own accord once she was seated. He could see that the skin across both sets of knuckles was badly shredded, little bits of bone white shining out around the heavily scabbed crests of her knuckles. Had she beaten in the face of that mage with her bare hands?

"You'll have to sit up and lean forward a little bit so I can see the wound on your back."

She complied and he settled behind her, kneeling on the floor and rolling up his sleeves. He dipped his hand into the water and very slowly peeled her shirt up and off the wound in her back, pulling the shirt off over her head. He looked through the basket Bodahn had given him and found a pair of scissors. "I'm going to cut off your breast band so that I can tend this wound." He found himself narrating everything to her, as if she were a skittish animal he was murmuring to. He then slid the scissors under the band of linen and snipped through it, pulling it off of her from behind.

The wound was mostly cauterized and so shouldn't need stitches, but it needed to be cleaned. Gathering some pieces of linen and a cleaning solvent he began to dab at the edges "This will hurt, and I'm sorry about that. I need to clean this wound out before I apply the poultice. Some bits of your shirt as well as some burnt skin are going to have to come off or it will get infected."

As he feared, but expected, she had no reaction at all to the process of pulling off the burnt edges of the wound. He had to scrub at it to remove all the charred pieces and she didn't even flinch. He knew from experience that this type of wound hurt far worse than it seemed it should. Her level of shock was a little more than he'd expected, and again he felt horrible about how hollow she must be at the moment. He'd been in exactly the same place himself before and he hated seeing anyone feel that way – but especially her. After Duncan died he'd spent weeks in a haze, moving, camping, eating, responding to questions, even engaging in fights where it was a miracle he wasn't cut down. But none of it truly got through to him. Solona pulled him out of it eventually. She'd been more than capable of getting them to Lothering on her own – but she made a point of stopping him, forcing him to talk about Duncan, and getting his head back on straight. The loss of Duncan hurt still even now, but not like it had then.

Once the wound was clean he told her that she could relax, that he was done. But that it would need to be dressed and he would do that once she was out of the tub. "I'm going to go into the other room for a minute. You should try to wash your hands and your face and your hair. I'll check back in on you in just a minute."

He left the room again and started making the bed, digging through an armoire to discover several sets of blankets with which to finish it. He was relieved as he worked to hear splashing noises from the other room. She was washing herself, moving of her own accord. He slumped onto the bed for a moment, relieved and suddenly feeling like he'd accomplished a huge task.

"Alistair?"

He jumped up at hearing her call out for him, though she had barely raised her voice, "Yes, Hawke, do you need something?" He was already headed into the chamber.

"I need help with my hair."

He came around the screen not knowing exactly what to expect but was thankful that she'd taken the wet bath linen and draped it completely around herself in the water, tucking it in at the front. So moving and doing and talking and even thinking about things like the dumb babbling man's potential for embarrassment at seeing her completely naked. Strides were being made every minute.

Her hair was wet and there was some soap in it, but only just the front above her forehead. He realized the issue immediately as she tried again to raise her arms and he watched the abused patch of skin on her back pull and seep.

He just nodded, he was already moving to his kneeling position behind the tub again. "One hair washing coming up." He took the soap from her and worked it into the rest of her hair, running his fingers through the parts that were already loosened to try to work out the blood and dirt and clumps of things he didn't want to examine too closely, scrubbing the hair and her scalp. He had to rinse everything twice and re-lather before he was sure it was all out and she was actually clean and she sat with her eyes closed, face honestly relaxed instead of blank as it had been before. Once her hair was clean, he continued to scrub her shoulders and the tops of arms, her underarms, and then moved around the side of the tub to wash her hands, skirting around her horribly abused knuckles. He even cleaned under her nails before moving down to legs, washing from her knees down to her feet. The relaxed, calm look on her face never left and he almost didn't want to stop just to keep that look there. The act of bathing her just felt… natural. He knew this part of fighting with someone, of needing to be there for the most basic things when they fell apart. Solona had done it for him and he'd done it for her, the facts of their gender never coming into play.

Eventually, however, finding that there were no other parts he could clean without being thoroughly indecent, he left her to get out and dry off, picking through her bureaus for a clean change of clothes, which he handed around to her from his side of the screen. Once she walked out in a long shift, he asked her to sit on the side of the bed while he sat behind her and after towel drying it, combed her hair, slowly working out the knots. This was one aspect of battlefield shock he was not familiar with. Cleaning, dressing wounds, getting out of armor, keeping them talking and distracted – all of those things he'd dealt with. Trying his best not to pull her hair while carefully pulling a comb through a week's worth of neglected knots – completely new to him. Despite having gotten all the snarls out, he kept combing. At first because he didn't know exactly how long combing usually went on, but also because, once he realized that she had that same relaxed look, she'd had while he washed her hair, he found he didn't really want to stop. It had been a very long time since he'd been this close to any woman at all, let alone one who managed to hit every one of his buttons the way she did. Spending a few extra minutes running his fingers through her hair and along her neck as he pulled the comb along her scalp was the very least he could do in that moment if it brought her any sense of comfort at all.

Eventually he declared the task done, her hair already beginning to dry at her brow line, and directed her into bed, arranging the pillows so she could eventually lean back against them. "But now, the fun part. I will help you to pull up your shift in the back so I can apply a poultice. I think it will heal just fine but I know it can't be comfortable. You'll probably have to sleep on your side for a few days to avoid irritating it. Or, we can do this the easy way and I can ask Anders to come in here and take a look."

Hawke shook her head at that "No, no magic. No mages."

Alistair nodded. He absolutely was not surprised by that. "Get situated and I'll get the poultice and bandages." He returned to find her leaning forward in the bed, leaning over her legs with her arms folded atop her thighs, sheets pulled around her hips, shift pulled out from under her so that he could lift it. He applied the poultice and then had to have her sit up so that he could run the bandage to hold it in place around her midsection and tie it off. Thankfully the wound was right in the middle of her back and he didn't have to wrap the bandage around anything other than her middle. "There is some warm cider to drink and it will make you feel better." He had no idea of the actual medicinal benefits of a warm drink after a terrible battle but he knew it always made him feel better. While she drank the cider, he sat next to her and took one of her hands to examine her knuckles. Very deep wounds in a few places where the skin had been shucked off of them completely, leaving ragged holes through which the cartilage of her hand showed through – she'd punched teeth – and done so repeatedly. While she sipped at her cup he treated each hand, spreading an elfroot balm across her knuckles and bandaging them loosely, just enough to keep the salve in place.

He talked while he worked, explaining to her more about his trip so far. About what he'd actually seen in Starkhaven.

"Goren Vael looks as dull witted as he seemed to be when talking to him. He's got that ungainly, soft look to him but he's too young to have earned. The only industries in Starkhaven that's doing well in the moment appears to be the gambling parlors and the brothels and Varric's runners seemed to think it was entirely due to Goren's vanity. He wasn't really sleeping his way through the women, he just liked having them around."

"It is a little like Highever in some ways. It's very green and lush because of the river. Highever is all crags and cliffs along the ocean and salt air while Starkhaven is soft moorlands that give way to silt, sheep in abundance, and more lords who are working their fields with their farmers than those who are sitting in their homes directing the accounts. I really liked it, actually. I wouldn't mind going back once it's been made stable. And while I'm here, I wouldn't mind having a talk with Sebastian about it as well. I hope he just doesn't realize how poorly his home is doing. If he does realize and he's still doing nothing about it well… I don't know what. But I'll be cross and he'll get some kind of talking to or something. I was raised in the Chantry, after all, I know my way around a good guilt trip."

Hawke smiled a little at that. An actual smile, though small, not just the impression of one. Alistair could have cheered. He'd been done wrapping her hands for a while but kept her fingers while he talked, idly running his thumb across her nails or squeezing the finger tips. She didn't protest and he didn't feel self-conscious about it.

Eventually he let her hand go and took the now empty mug from her. "You should try to get some sleep. I'm sure it will be more comfortable now." He moved to put the mug down on the table across the room and her hand shot out, grasping his wrist. "I'm not going anywhere, just putting this down."

She looked relieved, her wide eyes relaxing from their panicked stretch "You'll stay? I just… don't want to wake up and be alone again."

Alistair reached across with his other hand and squeezed her wrist "I'll stay. You'll wake up and I'll be right here. I said I wasn't going anywhere and I meant that."

She nodded and let her hand fall from his wrist, laying back in the bed and settling onto her side.

Alistair arranged the empty mug and a few other pieces of dinnerware that had been moved around the room on another tray that had days old food moldering on it – seriously, when had she last eaten? – and opened the door to find Bodahn standing there at attention as if he'd never left. Alistair tried to remain very quiet, handing the tray over "Bodahn, thank you for the assistance. If anyone comes over tomorrow, let them know that I don't want anyone bothering her. She's fine, she's better, but she needs time." Alistair looked over at Noodle "No one should knock on this door, Noodle. No one." The Mabari huffed in response, orders accepted, and moved to take up a guard position directly in front of the door again.

Bodahn looked at Alistair with genuine relief "Thank you so much for your help. I'm sure Marian appreciates it. I know that Orana, Sandal, and I certainly do. Sleep well."

It wasn't until Alistair had closed and locked the door, snuffed the lights, banked the fire, and settled into an armchair pulled over close to the bed that he realized that Bodahn had said "Marian" instead of "Messere Hawke".

…...

Hawke woke up, sweating and panting multiple times that night. And each time Alistair was there before she even realized she was awake, smoothing her hair, murmuring at her, rubbing her shoulder until she drifted back to sleep. Nightmares were something else he knew more than enough about.

…...


	8. Chapter 8

When Alistair woke up the next morning, it was to Hawke, sitting up in bed watching him unashamedly. He stretched a little, feeling oddly well rested for having slept in a leather armchair, "Was I snoring? I warned you that that would happen."

Hawke shook her head "No, no snoring. There might have been some drool, though."

"Ah, well, that's fine then. I make no apologies for drool." Seeing her sitting up and talking made him feel oddly proud. "Are you hungry? What would you like for breakfast?"

Hawke shrugged "I think I should eat, but I have no appetite. I wouldn't say no to tea, though."

Alistair nodded. "Got it. I'm going to leave the room for just a few minutes to check in on Teagan and get you some tea. I will be right back and we'll check on that wound on your back and your knuckles to see how they're doing."

Alistair started to leave the room and nearly tripped over Noodle who was stretched out directly in front of the door like a very lumpy, toothy throw rug.

Hawke made a clicking noise like one would use for a horse and Noodle rose, sidled in past Alistair's legs and immediately jumped up on the bed, hind quarters wiggling as he laid down and shoved his head into Hawke's lap. He made the whole bed frame vibrate, but Hawke didn't seem to notice, watching Noodle and rubbing at his ears. As he closed the door, he could hear Hawke lean in and apologize to the beast. If she wanted Noodle's company it was another step and one he was grateful for. There is nothing sadder in the world than the baleful cries of a Mabari parted from its master. He learned that after Solona died and only Sten was able to calm Xerxes.

The sitting room was full of people moving about in the way that people in a sick-house move, as if disturbing the air might cause those recuperating additional pain or anguish. Every eye turned to him as he made his way down the stairs. Orana was setting out a tea service on a large table that had materialized during the night – obviously the work of Bodahn and Sandal. The table virtually overflowed with plates of roasted fish, breads of many varieties, pitchers of short ale and wine and several whole wheels of cheese that had been partially carved. It was a lavish sort of meal and Alistair got the sense that Orana had been arranging and planning for hours, perhaps having slept fewer hours than anyone else in the house. Whether it was a simple need to serve or a need to keep busy he couldn't really say. Alistair asked her if she wouldn't mind putting together something for Marian – anything she knew she liked as well as some tea. The elf scurried off at speed seeming almost relieved to have some direction from her mistress, even if it was second hand.

Alistair's guards were out of armor, arranged around the table and looking generally more relaxed than they had last night, though still wary. They weren't used to being waited on like this and Donal especially looked a little put off by the genteel nature of it all, holding a tea cup that looked impossibly small in his huge hand. Teagan was on his feet the moment Orana stepped away to prepare something for Hawke. "How is she doing?"

Alistair wasn't really sure how much he wanted to share about her condition. He didn't get the sense that her pride would be hurt, just that she didn't generally wear all her emotions on her sleeve and wouldn't appreciate him talking about this. "She's much better. She's up and talking. She'll be fine, but it might be a few days."

Teagan nodded "Varric is here in the library along with a few other people whose names I didn't catch. I got a message from Eamon demanding to know what was going on. What would you like me to tell him?"

Alistair sighed "You can tell him that I've already told him what is going on and that there will be no argument about it. He doesn't need all the details right now and I'll tell him everything once we're back in Denerim."

Teagan looked at Alistair skeptically "You know that's just going to get him writing more letters, right?"

Alistiar shrugged and patted his uncle on the shoulder. "At the moment, Teagan, I really don't care." He then moved into the library to catch up with Varric. It hadn't taken him long to determine that, in the absence of Hawke, Varric had become the de-facto leader. Besides, he didn't really know any of the rest of them. Currently, Varric was surrounded by a small contingent of people who were clearly arguing and annoyed with each other but trying valiantly to do it quietly. He recognized Aveline, the Guard Captain, and noted that she seemed to go even straighter and stiller when she saw him. Anders and Fenris were gesturing wildly and scowling respectively. A man Alistair hadn't seen before was wearing some incredibly fine though ostentatious looking white armor, but it looked natural on him. His whole demeanor screamed royalty, as did his fine noble features, his perfectly waved hair, his aquiline nose. The mysterious Sebastian Vael, he assumed.

He stepped up to the group while Anders continued to talk "… so this is fine with all of you. We're just going to sit around while someone she barely knows plays nursemaid?" To Alistair's surprise he didn't look abashed or embarrassed when he stepped up. He clearly fully believed in everything he was saying and wasn't ashamed to say it directly to Alistair if need be. Well he certainly had the courage of his convictions.

Fenris glared at the mage "What would you have us do, Anders? Storm her room and demand that she choose you to help her? If she hasn't asked for you that should be answer enough. Leave her alone."

"Or what?" Anders shot back, "you'll make me? I'd love to see you try."

Aveline broke in "Both of you stop. It does her no good to have you two at each other's throats. She deals with that enough as it is; you need to either deal with each other or leave completely for her sake."

Varric, looking vaguely harried and obviously under-rested broke in with what Alistair could only call relief when he noticed the king standing there. "What do you say, Kingy? How's she doing?"

Sebastian, who had already been watching the new member of their group with interest came to fuller attention at the realization that this was the king of Ferelden in his rumpled shift and simple breeches. Alistair nodded "She's better. She's talking and got cleaned up. Noodle is up there right now. I would ask though that none of you try to storm the room. When she wants people around she'll ask."

Anders was still sullen looking "She'll ask for us but you just assume she wants you there."

Alistair shook his head, annoyed at the man, but kept his voice level and reasonable, "Look, I'm not sure what your problem is with me, but the fact is that, yes, she does want me there. She asked me not to leave and I don't plan to until she says otherwise. I'd say that the fact that she didn't open up the door for you over the course of three days indicates pretty clearly that she doesn't want you there. Unless you want me to drain you, and I'm pretty sure you don't, I would imagine that her request for "no magic, no mages" would cover you being there."

Anders looked slightly horrified "She said that?"

Fenris scoffed "You think she should want you and your demon around after what she saw that beast Quentin do?"

Anders didn't answer, just turned away and began pacing at the other end of the room.

Varric sighed and shook his head. "Do you think she's coming out today?"

Alistair shrugged "I honestly don't know. I wouldn't count on it, though. I'm going to take breakfast up to her soon and then, well, I guess we'll see."

Sebastian's rolling brogue broke in quietly "I don't know that she'll appreciate it, but can you tell her that I lit a candle for Leandra and that she is in my prayers?" He seemed almost sheepish about his admission as soon as he'd said it, but Alistair nodded again.

"Of course, thank you… brother? I'm not sure how to address someone in your position."

A small quirk of his lips was all the amusement he showed, but it colored his response "Sebastian is fine, your majesty. I'm not really a lay brother any longer, simply devoted to the Maker."

"Choir boy has his own set of interesting issues, Kingy." Varric cut in, with a surprising amount of disdain in his voice, rolling his eyes at the Prince. "What I want to know it, how did you even get her to open the door?"

Alistair smiled "I made her laugh."

**…**

Hawke picked at her breakfast, not really eating very much, though he noticed that she'd smiled slightly at the array of items Orana had put on the tray when Alistair placed it in front of her. Apparently the slight elf had chosen well. Alistair practically inhaled his food and had already begun to wonder if there was any left downstairs. "You don't suffer from lack of appetite, I see."

"The excuse used to be that I was a growing boy. Then it was that I was a Grey Warden. Now I think I must admit that I'm just a glutton."

Hawke smiled at him over her tea cup. "Well you must stay active. I don't think I've ever seen such a fit glutton."

"It all goes to fuel for talking. Anyone who runs their mouth as much as I do needs constant bolstering."

Hawke was quiet for a minute, contemplating her tea cup. "I like that you talk."

Alistair chuckled "You might be the first person ever to say that to me."

"It's… comforting."

"And you're definitely the first person to say that. Solona was always telling me that I gave myself away too easily. And, well, at the time she was probably right. Every emotion I ever had was on my face the moment I had it. A few years at court have broken me of that habit as well as my need to comment on everything all the time. I'm practically monk-like in contemplation compared to how I was 3 years ago."

"Have you really changed that much?"

"I think I have. Teagan seems to think I have. I still feel like the same basic person. Maybe I've just exchanged one type of duty for another. At first it was to the chantry, to the Templars. Then, thankfully, to the Grey Wardens. And now it's a duty to an entire country. While some would argue with me, I'd like to think that what I'm doing now is far more important than anything I could have done as a Templar. Three years is a long time."

Hawke nodded. "It is. Three years ago I had a family." She was quiet for a moment, still looking down at the cup clutched in her hands. "My promises to my father have all been broken"

Alistair wasn't sure if he should stay quiet, ask questions, encourage her to talk, tell her she didn't have to talk about it… he wasn't sure about anything. But it was the most she'd said at one time since he'd been there, despite the flat tone she used, so he talked – "What promises did you make to your father?"

"There was always a chance something would take father from us. His work, circumstance, war – life is precarious always, but especially so when you're living the way we did. When the twins were born there was a shift in him. He was less apt to smile, to laugh. When they were a few years old – I was perhaps five or six years old at the time – my father made me swear that I would protect them. He made it clear to me that my one overriding purpose in life was not for myself, but for them, for my mother. I only swore it once, but neither of us forgot it."

"How does a child of that age take an oath like that?"

Hawke shrugged, "I don't know. But I did. And I kept it. And when Bethanny showed signs of having magic when she herself was around 6 years old, the promise I'd made just became stronger to me. Now there were two mages to protect and that meant extra vigilance. "

"Wait – so your father was a mage?"

Hawke nodded "He was an apostate from Ferelden. I'm not sure how my mother even met him, but he'd worked as a mercenary – I guess it runs in the family. She was supposed to be married to the Comte de Launcet. But she ran off to Ferelden with my father instead."

"So all this vigilance - was it to avoid Templars?"

Hawke shook her head "Some of it, I suppose, but Templars can be easy. They wear heavy armor, they make a ton of noise, and they're fond of standing in one spot loudly proclaiming things. They're hard to miss and easy to avoid. It was everyone else, all those villagers with shifty eyes just waiting for something to be frightened of. That's why we moved so much. Especially while Bethanny was just starting to learn to control her magic, even a wiff of a spell would set off an angry mob. Suddenly there'd be a group of villagers banging at the door demanding you "hand over the mageling". And poor Bethanny was always so quiet and sweet I think she was more hurt than scared. That happened twice and after that we didn't stay in any one place long enough for it to happen again until father got sick. That's how we ended up in Lothering."

Through all of this, Hawke was dry eyed, calm. She sounded matter of fact about the whole thing. Alistair knew this too, he knew this stage. It was another step, but they weren't in the clear yet. He kept her talking.

"How long ago did your father die?"

"6 years ago. I was 17, the twins were 14."

He'd known Hawke was roughly the same age as him, but just then it really struck him. 23, the sole keeper of her family's protection, a refugee from the blight, a newly minted (reclaimed) noble… it seemed far too much life packed in to far too few years. Granted, in that same time frame his own life had easily been just as eventful, but his experiences were an outlier – a poor measure for anyone else.

"Carver wanted to be the man of the house but discovered himself overruled more often than not. Poor Carver." She shook her head with a slight, fond smile on her lips. "Three women and him, brimming with male bravado and a need to prove himself. I sometimes wonder if I shouldn't have let him win more often, have his way more often. He was mother's little boy, coddled from a young age and lead to believe that he was some kind of shining prince. Father was deft with a blade and had no qualms about using his skills in battle – typically paid for his services. But he refused to teach more than the basics to either Carver or I. Carver took that personally and assumed that father didn't like him very much, but that wasn't true at all. He just didn't want to shape us into another version of himself. For me there was the very practical reason that his style of fighting didn't suit me at all and that I was far more… effective… if I kept quiet, stealthy, and unnoticed. Carver though, Carver simply needed the kind of attention I don't think my father was aware of. He didn't mean to ignore him, I'm sure. Seeing her baby upset all the time, mother spoiled Carver rotten. I think more than anything, though, as time went on Carver hated that I didn't need him. I should have needed him more."

"And the two of you went to Ostegar? How did that happen?" It seemed cruel to continue to ask her about her family, but Alistair knew it was like lancing a boil. It had to be done and – honestly – he simply wanted to continue hear her talking.

"That was Carver's idea. More of his need to prove himself. But mother wouldn't let him go alone so I went with him. There was a woman in Lothering who knew that Bethanny was a mage, but she was on our side. She helped deflect attention from us and find ways to get Bethanny more integrated into the village so that she could have something close to a normal life. That was the only reason I felt okay leaving mother and Bethanny there alone. Bethanny had friends there and I think she was happy."

Alistair found himself sitting in front of her on the bed, mirroring her position, with their knees nearly touching. "Did you have any friends there?"

Shaking her head slowly, Hawke looked down at her mug of tea "I wasn't made for friends. Having friends would necessitate being noticed, known. That wasn't my role. Carver could wave his big sword around, but I needed to blend in and disappear." Hawke snorted, "I talked to Old Man Barlin more than anyone else in the village; probably even more than my family. He was surly, didn't care at all who I was, and appreciated traps."

Alistair covered the way his brow wanted to knit together at her talk of her role – even he had a few friends and playmates as a child – by grinning at the idea of Barlin. "I remember him. We met him on our way through Lothering after Ostegar. He had entire fields covered in traps at that point, like he could personally stop the advance of the blight if he just had a few more bits of wire."

"He wrote me a letter. He survived."

Alistair laughed "Of course he did. The end of the world could come and there'd be nothing but destruction, rubble, and Old Man Barlin left."

Hawke was quiet for a minute while she drank her tea. Alistair assumed her burst of talking was finished and was therefore surprised when Hawke spoke again.

"I killed my sister."

Alistair sat in silence. He wasn't sure what to say. It couldn't be that simple. The abrupt nature of the statement made Alistair sure she actually wanted to talk about it. "What happened?"

"When we landed in Kirkwall they weren't allowing anyone into the city without a heavy bribe or a merchant license. My uncle, the reprobate, got us in by indenturing us to a smuggler for a year. Athenril liked that Bethanny was a mage and she liked that I was stealthy. By the time our year was up she'd squeezed us for everything we were worth and even tried to blackmail Bethanny into doing more work in exchange for not telling the Templars about her. Something about that experience made Bethanny sure that having money, having a name, would provide protection against the Templars and comfort for our mother."

"When we finally gathered the coin for the Deep Roads expedition, Bethanny insisted on going with me. She saw it as an enemy she was allowed to fight for a change. Mother stood there in the Merchant Guild square crying and begging me not to take Bethanny. She'd just turned 17 and had been completely shielded from everything her whole life. She was ready to fight for herself. I couldn't turn her away. I think mother hated me a little in that moment."

Hawke's voice remained flat through all of this. Like she was reading the events of someone else's life from a page and not recounting what had happened to her personally. "Once we were down in the thaig we found an idol. It was made of raw lyrium. We handed it off to Bartrand and he locked us inside and left us to die. Varric, Fenris, Bethanny, and Me. We spent a week just looking for another way out. Once we finally got past things none of us had even heard of before and a demon down there feeding on them, we found an exit. We felt like we were headed in the right direction when Bethanny collapsed. She's been infected by darkspawn taint. Even if she'd have told us sooner, we were trapped under the surface. There was nothing we could do. She made me promise to take care of mother and then asked me to kill her. And I did."

Alistair just listened, as much as he wanted to reach out to her then. You can't shield someone from their own past that way. He had had no idea. He had come to assume that her sister had died – maybe Templars, maybe an accident, maybe some random gang or something else outside of anyone's control. A father taken by disease in a slow death; a brother crushed by an Ogre; a sister killed in an act of mercy; a mother maimed and corrupted because she accidentally looked like someone. It was only a wonder Hawke hadn't buckled under it all before. She looked up at him then and he nearly pulled back. Such devastation on her face, such sorrow. "Only father ever got a funeral. Carver was left on the road with Aveline's husband. Bethanny was left in the deep roads. Mother was burned in a mass grave that they wouldn't even let me see. Solona got a funeral. So maybe it isn't Amells who are cursed. Maybe it's just Hawkes. Or just me."

Alistair did reach out then, just to interrupt her line of thought if nothing else. He stroked from her shoulder down her arm, laying his hand around her slender wrist. "Don't say that, you're not cursed."

"If it's not a curse then it's my own failure. I was supposed to protect them, Alistair. I was supposed to make sure nothing hurt them." Hawke's hand bunched into a fist where it rested on her knee. "I let every single one of them down. I wasn't fast enough to get to Carver. I wasn't strong enough to force Bethanny to stay. I wasn't watching closely enough to keep mother safe."

"It's not your fault, Marian. None of those things are your fault. They're all terrible and you've been so strong in dealing with them. But none of them are your fault."

Suddenly the dam broke. Hawke let out an ugly unhinged sob and Alistair pushed forward, moving her cup to the side table and taking her in his arms. She let out a wail as her fingers tangled in his shirt at his sides and he pulled her tightly up against him, her forehead against his collar bone. It was starling how quickly it began and it was a horrible sound, like it must physically hurt to cry. He rocked side to side with her, stroking her hair and her sides, not telling her to calm down, not telling her anything. He just stayed there, holding her and providing something to pour her grief over.

….

Her crying raged on like a storm for hours. Calming and then resurging over and over. Each resurgence was a little less violent than the last, a little less frantic. Sometimes she talked or yelled through the tears, but mostly she just cried. And Alistair waited it out, like a rock for her to cling to. It took nearly the whole day, but eventually exhaustion took her and she fell asleep against him, her breath even and calm against his neck, her hands gone slack at his sides. He laid her back in the bed, canted onto her side, and pulled the covers up over her, brushing her hair away from her puffy, but finally dried face. Her eyes were so rimmed in red they looked painful, raw and burning. The bruised quality to her cheeks and her lips, as if everything had swelled from the tears was difficult to look at. She hardly looked like the same woman.

He left the room as quietly as possible, heading down the stairs and into the library where he was sure he'd seen a decanter of something that looked appropriately alcoholic. His hands shook as he pulled the stopper from the bottle and began to pour some into a glass when he was startled at the deep, calm voice behind him.

"How is she?"

He spun around to see Fenris sitting in one of the wing chairs by the fire. He hadn't noticed him on his way in. Alistair took a long gulp of his drink and swallowed, wincing at the burn, before answering. "She's better. She'll be even better tomorrow."

He joined Fenris in the other chair and realized the elf was drinking as well, though without the ceremony of a glass, just taking swigs out of a bottle of wine. Fenris nodded at him. "I didn't want to break into her room. But I needed to know that she hadn't done anything rash. It was too quiet. I was… I was scared that she'd hurt herself. It was actually a relief that she was still together enough to catch me so completely off guard."

Alistair sighed "Well, she doesn't seem to be angry at any of you for trying, if that's any comfort at all."

Fenris seemed to consider that and replied haltingly "I … am glad to hear it."

"She did thank me for shutting up Anders, though"

The elf let out a laugh at that. It seemed completely at odds with his demeanor to see someone that seemingly taciturn laugh at all, but the tenor of it fit him perfectly. "Yes, he does… talk… an awful lot. As does Hawke. But at least she's worth listening to."

Alistair knew he shouldn't ask, but he couldn't help himself. "What exactly is Anders's problem with me? Do you know? It seems from the moment I showed up he did nothing but scowl at me."

Fenris snorted "That mage does nothing but scowl at people and complain and moan about the plight of the mages. Then he expects everyone to cater to him, especially Hawke. The frustrating thing is that she often does just that, gives in to his requests and his childish pouting because she feels sorry for him." Shaking his head he took another swig from the bottle he held and then let out a long sigh. "I imagine that Anders is probably jealous of you. Hawke has never shown an ounce of interest in him no matter how much he attempts to win her over with his sad stories and his constant fawning over her. She even tried to keep her sister away from him. How can you have romantic feelings toward someone you only pity?"

Alistair didn't quite know how to take that bit of information. He'd never known another man to be jealous of him unless it was purely a power and position type of jealousy. But he also knew immediately that he didn't like the idea of the apostate having feelings toward Hawke. Not because he was an apostate, he thought… well he was pretty sure, anyway. But because of that off feeling he had around the man, like there was something more to him than simply being a mage.

"I'd met him before. I had an official visit to the Warden's compound in Ferelden when the new Warden-Commander arrived. Anders was conscripted into the Grey Wardens while I was there. I didn't exactly sit around and chat with him, but he struck me as the flirty, chatty type back then." Alistair thought back to the reports about there being some sort of incident at the Vigil a few years back. A revolt of some sort, though Caron had been extremely sketchy with the details, claiming that it was a Grey Warden matter that would be handled and did not impact the crown.

"I certainly haven't seen that side of him if it still exists at all. Of course I wouldn't. He and I don't… get along."

Alistair smiled "I might have noticed that." He swallowed the rest of his tumbler of liquor and rose, feeling calmer than he had when he'd left Hawke. "I should get back up there in case she wakes up. I doubt she'll be down tonight, so you may not get to see her even if you stay."

Fenris shrugged "I would be here anyway. I'd rather wait close by. Besides," he smirked a little, "I don't make much noise."

Alistair barked out a laugh at that "I might have noticed that as well. Goodnight, Fenris."

Hawke was still asleep when he got up to the room. He felt drained, as if he'd been the one crying all day. As he settled in to his chair (somehow in his head it had already become "his" chair), and watched Hawke's steady breathing, he realized he actually liked the idea of Anders being at least a little jealous.

**...**

_Author's Note:_ First of all, the reviews have been really amazing and I appreciate anyone taking the time to throw some encouragement my way. Second - I've been holding myself back from posting more than one chapter a week since I see that's how most people do it. But the thing is - I sat down and just started writing a few months ago. In three weeks I'd fleshed out roughly two years of this story. The issue with that is that I didn't think about chapter breaks or individual chapter pacing - I just wrote the whole story. So in posting I've been going back, trying to build in chapters and correct the flow in and out of them as well as address pacing issues within each chapter. But all told - there are well over 200,000 words in just what I consider "book one" of this thing, 500+ single spaced pages of a word document. So I think what I will do (so that I'm not posting these for the next year) is try to upload two chapters a week. Maybe one on the weekend or early in the week, and another mid-week.

I thought I would feel the need to justify having a stronger, less unsure Alistair but I've been really happy that this hasn't been deemed out of character for him. I don't think it is at all - but then it's my story, so I wouldn't ;) Also, this might totally qualify as a "slowmance". No love at first sight, no tossing turning burning loins for each other. Lots of mutual respect and appreciation.


	9. Chapter 9

Hawke was still trying to wrap her head around the fact that the king of Ferelden diverted a trip to Denerim to come to her house, tuck her into bed, and let her blow tears and snot all over him. Well okay, maybe that hadn't been the purpose of his coming to see her, but that had been the end result. It was… embarrassing. She'd broken down in a way that she'd never done before in her life. Certainly she'd shed tears – she wasn't so cold as all that. But never had she been so thoroughly lost to a tide of emotion. And he was still here, sleeping in an armchair next to her bed, his face going through the emotions of some dream that had him alternately smirking and grimacing. Something funny and disgusting? Something humorously grotesque?

Her eyes felt like they were full of sand, the edges along her bottom lashes burning. She couldn't completely open her eyes from the puffiness of her eyelids and the throbbing headache coursing through her temples made her less likely to try. She slipped out of bed as quietly as possible and poured herself some water from the pitcher on her desk. As the cool water hit her stomach she realized how empty it was. She was suddenly ravenous, the last two weeks of no appetite coming back with a fury. But first, she wanted a bath and a hot cloth for her face. She set to lighting a fire in the bathing chamber, filling buckets, and getting them lined up. Her body felt worn out, sluggish, despite (or perhaps because?) the lack of anything straining she'd done in the last two weeks. Returning to the bedroom for some more water and to dig around in her pack for an elfroot potion she saw Alistair was just waking up. He had an adorable morning face, scrunched up, scratching at his head and yawning, eyes roving around blearily.

"Good morning, Alistair" her voice had a rough quality to it, likely from the embarrassment of wailing she'd allowed herself yesterday. No matter how willing the witness to that seemed to be, she still hoped fervently that he wouldn't bring it up, that he'd just pretend it never happened. Then maybe she could pretend as well and stop feeling so incredibly sorry for herself. Self-pity was not something she was accustomed to or comfortable with and she'd been wallowing in it endlessly since the night they found her mother. It still made her fists clench to think of that man, the ache and stretched sore quality to her now healing but horribly scarred knuckles a testament to the fact that it had actually happened. Whether a permanent mark on her body to reminder of it would prove a blessing or a curse, only time could tell. For now, the dull ache felt good – felt real in a way that little had in the last two weeks.

She worried though that Alistair would think poorly of her now; treat her differently, like something fragile. While she'd certainly given people worse impressions of her, weak was something she was not accustomed to being and it made her cringe to think of how helpless she'd been in front of this man.

"Good morning, Marian. How did you sleep?"

"I would say "like a brick", but you never know, bricks might be horrible insomniacs."

Alistair's smile was immediate, broad, and dazzling. He had a way of smiling that made it impossible for her to not smile back.

As she uncorked her potion and steeled herself for swallowing it down, Alistair took notice "What's that you have there?"

"Elfroot potion," She shot back the vial as quickly as possible and chased it with a big gulp of water that she swished in her mouth before swallowing. "It tastes like something scraped off of a shoe and smalls like wet mabari after a battle, but it works."

Alistair grinned at her. "You seem to have some more direction today – maybe even plans. Mind letting me in on what those might be? I am a houseguest after all."

Hawke sat on the edge of the bed across from him. "Well, I'm going wash my face. And then, I'm going to eat some food, because I'm starving. Then I think I want to leave the house. I don't want to be here today. At least, that's the plan. It might not happen like that. I might get one step out that door and immediately run back in here."

Alistair nodded "It sounds like a good plan. But if you were to run back in here that would be alright too, you know. You don't have to prove anything to anyone. Take your time."

"I think I have to prove something to myself. And, Maker's BALLS, Alistair, I've spent more time in this room in the last two weeks than I have in all the time I've lived here combined." Hawke's face grew a little more serious, "The thought of how empty my house is going to be scares me more than I can possibly say. But it isn't going to scare me any less tomorrow or the next day. The sooner I make myself get used to the echo of the place, the better off I'll be."

Hawke's eyes sparkled a little "Besides, no one in Kirkwall is going to let me use them as a human handkerchief and you'll have to go back to being Kingy at some point. I can't delay the inevitable."

Alistair grinned at her "Have you ASKED anyone to allow themselves to be used as a human handkerchief? You never know until you try!"

"You know, you're right – I'll draft up a Chanter's Board notice right now."

Alistair laughed and Hawke smiled at him before looking down at her hands pooled in her lap. "But seriously, Alistair, I …" She had no idea how to say what she needed to say – what she felt obligated to say in order to rebuild herself in front of him and make it clear that she wasn't broken by this. "Saying thank you seems inadequate. I really don't know what to say. You'll have to let me make it up to you somehow. I have no idea how recompense for something like this works… but… well… " She huffed out a frustrated sigh. " I just mean thank you. Alright?"

Alistair reached over and took both her hands "Did I just see Hawke at a loss for words? Varric will never believe me."

Hawke groaned "Varric will believe ANYTHING you tell him and then he'll tell others. I have to go check my water" Hawke tugged at his hands. "So stand up so I can hug you."

Alistair was a little surprised at the request, but didn't even consider denying it. He stood and Hawke immediately closed the distance, going up on her toes so she could put her arms around his shoulders and leaned into him. Alistair squeezed her back, arms wrapped around her back and easily finding purchase on her sides, face buried in her hair. Alistair felt like his chest was tight, every nerve ending he had trying to reach out and be part of that contact. He'd of course noticed her build when he'd initially met her and then again in the bath, but something about having her pressed up against him drove home just how… tiny… she was. This supposed beast of battle, this fierce fighter, this survivor… under all the adulation was just a woman with a delicate dip to her waist and a slight flair up along her ribs where even now he found his hands caressing up and down in a soothing pattern. But he could feel the strength in her arms, in the muscles across her back. The hug may have gone on for far too long as it was, but he wanted to continue to hold on and inventory the way she felt there. Hawke's sigh brushed against his ear and she gave him one final squeeze before pulling back. He didn't release her completely and left his hands at her waist as she sunk back down, hands on his shoulders, looking up at him with a slight grin. "You are a great hulking wall of a man, you know that, right?"

Alistair half shrugged "Bah, you should have seen some of the other Wardens. I was practically tiny compared to some of them."

"Killing darkspawn through sheer intimidation. I see how it works now." Hawke grinned at him and then stepped away toward the bathing chamber. "I'll leave the door open so we can talk."

Hawke set about mixing water in a large bowl to the right temperature. "Oh! Before I forget, can you check the wound on my back once I'm out? It feels fine, I even slept on my back some last night. But I'm about to peel the bandage off since it likely needs changing. I want to make sure my back looks as good as it feels."

Alistair was drinking some water and nearly choked at her choice of words but managed to get out "Sure, no problem." He heard the sound of water moving around for just a few minutes and was surprised at how quickly she was finished. "That has to be the shortest morning ablutions I've ever known a woman to take. Are you feeling alright?"

Hawke laughed "I'm just hungry. I wanted a quick rinse, really. I've set aside plenty of other buckets of water for your own bath if you'd like to take advantage. I'm showing a rare moment of restraint this morning. The first week we lived here I had wrinkled fingers practically the whole time from how often I took to the bath. Lowtown isn't exactly known for its luxuries and Gamlen's hovel was poor and disgusting even by Lowtown standards. I tend to completely over-indulge in taking long baths.

Hawke re-emerged from the bathing chamber, back in her shift. "You'll have to pour your own water, your Majesty, but it'll be a nice change for you – an adventure in not being waited on!" She gave a little flouring bow to usher him in to the bath.

Alistair smiled, "I think I'll take you up on that. I haven't had a proper bath since Ostwick and I am probably stinking up your upholstery at this point."

As he went into the chamber and began to peel his shirt off Hawke called out "Nah, you smell just fine as far as I can tell. Not that I was… smelling you exactly. Not that I was avoiding… ah you know… I'm just going to stop trying to talk until I've filled my stomach."

Alistair chuckled to himself. It was nice to see he wasn't the only one mentally and verbally tripping all over themselves.

He eased himself into the bath and set to scrubbing with the soap she'd left out. He could hear Hawke moving around in the other room, probably getting dressed. Her change in demeanor was striking. One good cry and that's it? He realized there would likely be ongoing cries, probably for a long time to come. And she was right in thinking that she may never really be the same. But her resiliency once someone was around to point her in the right direction was startling and even a little troubling. Especially since it seemed to Alistair that what she let out yesterday wasn't just grief for her mother, but for her brother and sister as well. Some huge well of sorrow that she'd kept a lid on so that she could stay strong for those who remained. Surely that still bubbled there below the surface. It wasn't his place to treat there, though. It wasn't his place to push.

Her talk of duty, and her purpose struck a chord in him as well. It was something he'd often struggled with no matter what his role in life at the time was. While he'd chafed against it, Hawke had simply become it fully. He was still taken aback at the concept of a six year old being scared into thinking they were the only thing that stood between their family and certain doom. The fact that Hawke was so… Hawke at all was a testament to her will. She laughed, she smiled, and she was honest and true. A lesser person wouldn't have made it through half of what she'd gone through, let alone striding through life the way she did, owning her mistakes and her failures just as much as her triumphs. He'd known few people that balanced and honest with themselves. He knew half of her humor was deflection – he did it himself enough to recognize it in others – but that was still a type of balance. Or at least that's what he told himself. It may simply be a type of being broken he was comfortable with.

He dried off and threw his clothes back on, coming back into the bedroom to find Hawke scribbling away at a diary at her desk. "Ooh, a diiiiary. Had I known that was there I could have been so entertained."

Hawke smirked at him, but didn't turn around or pause in her writing. "And had I realized you read it you'd have been entertaining yourself down in Ander's clinic wondering how someone could be so damaged and yet live."

"Then it's a good thing all around that I tend to toil in ignorance. I need to see if I have any clothing in the house to wear, I'll be right back."

Alistiar headed out to find Teagan and ask after his luggage. Apparently the rest of their caravan had arrived in town and were confused about where to off load, so they'd done it there. Hawke's sitting room had had the number of furniture pieces doubled and there were several large crates of armor and clothing stacked along the walls. It looked as if an entire household had moved in overnight.

Teagan followed him as Alistair poked through the crates looking for some casual clothing to wear. "I heard her up there talking and even laughter. You're apparently much better at this comforting and soothing thing than I think anyone would have given you credit for, Alistair."

"I've told you before, Teagan, I am quite charming. Why you stubbornly refuse to believe me I will never know."

Teagan laughed "And you also seem to be in better spirits today. I take in things are going well? "

Alistair nodded "I think the worst is over for now. I want to stay for a few days but then we should head back to Denerim. I know Eamon is annoyed at me for delaying our return but I refuse to apologize for it because I'm just not sorry."

"Eamon will understand, I think. Especially if you happen to mention the family name. That might smooth things over." Teagan had that scheming look to him that all Guerrin men seemed to have.

"What? You want me to hint that I'm thinking of picking up a wife and that's why we delayed? Even you can't think that would actually work. Besides, Eamon would start prying and investigating and spying on her immediately and I won't have that, especially just now."

Teagan smiled "I understand, Alistair, I'm just giving you options. And being a hopelessly prying old man. I'm curious about this relationship you've started."

Alistair gave him a blank look "Are we really having this conversation?"

Teagan just continued to smile so Alistair sighed and rushed through the next thing he had to say. "She's a friend. A good friend, even though I've only known her for a short time. She's also strong, intelligent, and has a wry sense of humor. She's…" Alistair cast his eyes up the stairs trying to find words for what he wanted to say. "She's the first new friend I've had in a long time. And that feels important. And that, uncle, is all you're getting out of me."

Teagan laughed "And that's more than I could have hoped to know. I won't say anything to Eamon, Alistair. But I'm happy to see you in such good spirits." Teagan clapped him on the shoulder and Alistair squirmed a little, uncomfortable with the entire line of questioning.

"Right, well, I'm going to get dressed and see about food. We'll be down shortly, I'm sure."

Alistair bolted back up the stairs, knocking on the door before entering. Hawke was standing near the foot of the bed in a pair of well-tailored tawny colored leather breeches, boots, and a tunic that she currently had pulled up and bunched just under her breasts with one hand while she tried to twist and see her back in the vanity mirror. "This isn't working out like I thought it would, I can't see the wound at all."

Alistair quickly made his way around her to examine the wound, trying to remind himself that she was just a person who needed a little help and was definitely not a woman with an amazingly gorgeous abdomen and navel who had just been twisting her torso in interesting and provocative ways in front of him. The wound was still red in the center, but the edges had mellowed out to that new scar color, just slightly pink. "It's healing really well. You might have some soreness for a few more days, but I'd say the poultice did its job." He moved away to head into the bathing chamber with his clothes, closing the door almost all the way so he could get dressed.

"Well, it'll be another interesting scar. I seem to be collecting them." Hawke sighed.

Alistair laughed at that "I've won more than one drinking contest counting scars. And if you ever fall for a Dwarven man you'll be happy to know that they seem to have a particular relish for scars on their women."

Laughing, Hawke replied, "The only dwarven man I even have a chance of falling for is Varric and his one true love is a crossbow."

Alistair emerged from the bathing chamber, finally dressed outside of his boots, which he began to pull on as he sat. He was wearing the plainest clothing he had, some simple trousers and a belted tunic over a plain short shift. "I meant to ask you about that. Is he really as obsessed with it as he seems?"

"By way of an answer to that I will have you know that the crossbow's name is Bianca."

"Ah, I see. You're right; you stand no chance at all. You don't even have any inlaid brass fixtures."

Hawke grinned at him and waggled her eyebrows "That you know of, Kingy."

Alistair was taken off guard and actually blushed. A full on, red faced blush. He felt like an idiot, but Hawke just laughed without any malice. "I'm sorry, I didn't realize "Kingy" would embarrass you so" and she winked at him.

She certainly WAS feeling better today.

Alistair stood "Alright you, you're obviously feeling far too full of yourself this morning. Let's get you some food so you'll have something to do besides talk."

….

They ate with Donal, Teagan, and Fenris, who, true to his word, had stayed there all night. When Hawke came down the steps and saw him there, her face fell and she looked miserable. Fenris shook his head at her as she walked toward him "No, there's no need for that. I'm not angry. I'm just glad you're feeling better."

Hawke's eyes filled with tears that never quite fell, leaning her forehead into Fenris's, who inclined his in turn as they held each other's forearms. Alistair skirted around them to let them talk but heard her apologizing as he headed into the kitchen. A few minutes later they followed, Hawke dry eyed and with a bit of a smile on her face once again and Fenris looking like… well… like Fenris looks. Not dour, but generally serious. It was odd to think of the two of them as friends, but they obviously cared a great deal about each other.

Fenris didn't have much to say while they ate, but seemed to enjoy the company. Teagan peppered Hawke with questions the whole meal and it was interesting to Alistair to see which she answered and which she deflected. Her deflections were generally so well-crafted that he didn't think Teagan even noticed that no answer had been forthcoming. Most of Teagan's questions were general topics, safe topics. Nothing about her family, nothing too close to home. He was the consummate noble with that easy charm and the right words at the right time always. It was something that Alistair used to envy about Teagan, but came to realize that that kind of smoothness came at a cost – no one could ever be entirely sure of your sincerity.

While it was sometimes required for Alistair to more or less lie in the course of his political work, he never ever wanted to lose the ability to be completely sincere when he wanted and needed to be.

Teagan asked after the plans for the day. Hawke smiled at that "Well, I know I would like to get out of the house, and it occurs to me that Alistair has only really seen a sliver of Lowtown and Hightown. Since most of the Ferelden refugees are still living in squalor in the Undercity, it would be good for him to see them. Depressing, but important."

Teagan looked concerned "I don't think it would be wise to take a contingent of guards through the poorer parts of the city and I don't see how we could manage it otherwise, we have to think of the King's safety."

Before Alistair could protest, Hawke said "And that's why we, Fenris and I, will provide personal protection for the king. We'd also like Donal to come along if he can be convinced to wear slightly less obvious armor."

Donal's head jerked up at that. "uhm.. well… I'd be fine with that I suppose. I often accompany his Majesty when he visits some of the uh… less reputable… parts of Denerim."

Hawke smirked at that "Ooooh, do tell, Alistair. Isabela has told me about the Pearl and I hear they have a lovely wine list…"

Alistair coughed "I don't go to the Pearl. Well except that one time, but that was Solona's doing."

Donal agreed "Even the king couldn't get away with openly visiting a brothel."

Hawke looked at Fenris "Too bad then, we'll have to scratch The Blooming Rose off the list. And I was looking forward to introducing him to Jethann."

Fenris chuckled at that. "Well he would be in commoner's clothes, Hawke. It wouldn't be an official visit. And very few people here know what he looks like."

"Good point, Fenris, the Rose is back on the list!" Hawke announced cheerfully.

Alistair rolled his eyes "I don't think I want the two of you deciding our itinerary."

"The things you suffer through as monarch, eh?" She shot him a warm smile before turning her attention to the rest of the table. "Teagan, you are of course welcome to join us as well, though I would suggest you keep a weapon of your choice on you and that you… how do I put this…that you find something to wear that doesn't scream "please run up and rob me." Your clothing is a little too fine for the pickpockets in Hightown to resist a little bump and grab action."

Teagan laughed at that "I can definitely find something more suitable. I believe some of the King's splint mail will fit Donal as well if we let it out quite a bit."

Hawke looked completely too pleased with herself. If it hadn't made Alistair so happy to see, it would have made him nervous.


	10. Chapter 10

Their strange little band spent the day meandering through the city. The Hightown market was every bit as diverse as Denerim, though packed into a smaller space. Hawke made sure to take Alistair to the cheese merchant where she'd gotten her welcoming gift to him, giggling at the unabashed glee in his eyes at all the cheese to choose from.

Quite a few of the Hightown merchants seemed to know her personally, including a Dwarf named Worthy who easily bantered with her and a rather officious and off putting Orlesian man named Hubert. Hawke explained that Hubert was the shared owner of the Bone Pit and that she'd only fallen into a business relationship with him out of complete happenstance. Mainly that Hubert was terrible at dealing with people and apparently clueless about mining. It didn't help that the Bone Pit itself was a storied slave mine that, like much of Kirkwall, seemed to have a thinner than usual barrier between it and the Fade. Oh, and it apparently was a dragon roost.

The first several people who approached her and gave their condolences about her mother seemed to leave her off balance, muttering out stilted thanks and attempting to move on rather quickly. Alistair wondered if she wouldn't change her mind and decide that a day in the house would be better, but she adjusted quickly. While she was stopped several more times by shop keepers and shoppers alike, she perfected a simple but sincere answer to their statements of grief, prayers, or occasionally short stories about her mother that they shared. It made him eager to move on out of the market though, no matter how well she appeared to be handling it.

Alistair also noted the number of Hightown residents who nodded politely to her face and then cut their eyes at her back and fell to gossiping with their fellows as soon as she passed. He hadn't really been sure if she'd noticed but as they'd nearly made it to the steps to Lowtown, Hawke shot him a sad little smile and shrugged. "Barbarians are still barbarians, no matter where they live in this city."

Taking the rambling steps from Hightown down to the lower reaches of the city, Alistair realized how striking Kirkwall could be if it weren't so… Tevinter. The imposing statues and the very martial nature of the structures in the main portion of the city were too austere to being welcoming. Given that access to Kirkwall included taking a ship through high, black cliffs flanked by enormous golden statues that looked like the definition of suffering, it was difficult to imagine Kirkwall as anything but the pit of pain it had once been.

Making their way into the Lowtown market, Alistair was able to see that this was the heart of the city, where the true character of its people lay.

Hawke had them stop in at The Hanged Man so that she could talk to Varric and Isabela. Varric shot Alistair an approving look once Hawke wasn't paying attention and Alistair slightly inclined his head. Varric hadn't been back to the house, giving her space, but he was obviously relieved to see her not only out of her room, but out in the city as well.

Isabela was still drunk, and rolled her eyes at Hawke more than anything else. She was obviously still upset about having her hand sliced when she foolishly attempted to get into Hawke's room. Alistair kept his distance, sitting at a table near the door with Fenris, but he unashamedly watched the conversation unfold. Eventually, Hawke leaned forward and whispered something right in Isabela's ear and watched the pirate's face transform into a radiant smile filled with mirth as her shoulders shook. She and Hawke both kicked back their heads and laughed, clutching at their stomachs, each leaning forward periodically to add something to whatever had gotten them going, causing them to recoil again in new waves of laughter. When Hawke finally stood to leave the pirate to her drink, Isabela was obviously in better spirits. Hawke smirked at Alistair as she walked back to the table and slid onto the bench next to him.

Fenris asked as soon as she sat down "What color are they today?"

Hawke shot him an appreciative smile "You can always tell, can't you? Well I said something in a tartan pattern, greens and reds and golds. Isabela is set on pink."

Alistair looked between them and Hawke answered before he could ask "Isabela's favorite pick-me-up is wondering what color Fenris's small clothes are."

Alistair wanted to laugh, but reined it in since Fenris looked so miserably put-upon. "Ah, I see. Has she uh… ever had the chance to find out?"

Fenris's head shot up, managing to look both startled and disgusted. "What? No. Isabela likes a lot of things. That doesn't mean she should get them."

Hawke laughed "It won't stop her from trying though. Isabela makes me wonder why Rivain hasn't over taken the entirety of Thedas at this point if the rest of their people are even a quarter as determined as she is."

Hawke ordered an ale "Just to prove a point" and Alistair understood that point the moment it hit the table. This concoction was mostly flat, entirely the wrong color, and smelled like ale might smell if heavily cut with water that had been moldering in a rain barrel for a few weeks. At Hawke's urging he took a sip. "Alright – first order of business when back in Denerim – sort out some sort of export agreement with the Free Marches for decent ale. Do people here really drink this?"

Hawke nodded "And the Hanged Man has some of the best ale in the city. The rest of their bar is stocked with swill, but the ale is better than what's available anywhere else. It's dire."

Alistair shuddered, an honest quaking reaction to the prospect of having any more of the cup in front of him. Varric sauntered over with some news for Hawke, rumors, requests, some updates. Half of it was so mired in back story and things that would need a lot of explaining that Alistair was sure he couldn't unravel it. After the third sentence that went something like "The elf kid is still having issues with his dream buddies and mom is all aflutter," he gave up even trying to decipher any of it.

Once they were back out in the street, Alistair was struck by how many merchants stopped Hawke to talk to her, give their condolences, and just call out or chat. It seemed like she knew the names of nearly every merchant they passed and often times knew bits about their families or recent events in their lives. Fenris told Alistair at some point that Hawke and Varric were the "talkers" in their group and that they'd done favors for nearly every merchant in the main square. Hawke also apparently had a habit of haggling even when she didn't really need to, which made her stick in people's minds.

At one point, they'd wandered into a very old looking and extremely run down portion of the city. It looked a lot like the Denerim Alienage had during the Blight, but with more stone and less termite eaten wood. Hawke asked everyone else to stay behind, leaving Fenris to play stilted tour guide to Teagan and Donal. "And here is yet another area of Kirkwall that smells like fish…."

Hawke lead the way up a short flight of steps to a poorly cobbled together door, knocking and waiting for a moment before knocking again, harder this time. "It's only just hit noon, he's probably still sleeping off whatever he drank for dinner last night".

Without waiting any longer, Alistair watched dumbfounded while Hawke kneeled down and easily picked the lock. She tucked away her tools and opened the door, peeking her head in and yelling out "Gamlen, it's Hawke, cover yourself!" before beckoning Alistair inside. The house wasn't quaint, it wasn't cozy, and it wasn't anywhere near clean.

"This is my uncle Gamlen's house, where I lived for the first year I was in Kirkwall. We shared this room and the two adjacent rooms between Gamlen, my mother, Bethanny, me, and Noodle."

Alistair couldn't imagine even Noodle having enough space in this shack, let alone Noodle plus four adults. There wasn't a kitchen, just a wood burning stove against a wall with a grimy table next to it. A few chairs with wobbly legs, a small table, and a fire grate made up the main room's only furnishings.

"I have no idea where he's sleeping these days so let me just peek." Hawke went to one door and slipped inside while Alistair took in the state of the place, only belatedly noticing the clear shafts of light that shone in from the horribly hole-ridden roof and the great hanks of dust and cobwebs that hung from the rafters. This is where Hawke started off her life in Kirkwall, gathering resources, living as an indentured worker to a smuggler. It felt surreal going from her current estate to this place and realizing that this had been her home for a time such a short while ago.

Hawke waved Alistair into the adjacent room, pointing out the cots that had never been moved. "My bed, Bethanny's, mother's. Gamlen rarely slept here unless it was passed out on the floor or in the other room which is technically "his" room. I've never really gone in there and I don't plan on making today the first time."

Hawke moved across the room to a small chest and pulled out a painting. It was of a beautiful woman in a fine dress with an enormous engagement ring prominently displayed on her hand. She might have been some relative of Hawke's, there was something similar about her jaw line and her hair, but this woman's features were much more refined and delicate. "Bethanny loved this painting. This was my mother's betrothal portrait." Hawke smiled wistfully at the painting. "When we found this we were shocked at how closely my mother at this age resembled Bethanny. When we showed it to Varric he swore that we'd somehow gotten a portrait of Bethanny done." Hawke shook her head "My sister was such a beauty. She would have broken many hearts if given the chance."

Alistair put his hand on Hawke's shoulder. "Why have you left it here?"

"Because Gamlen, for as much as the bastard is a miserable, mean, evil little man, was my mother's closest relative. I have a house and a lifetime of memories. He has a single portrait to hold on to, having squandered everything else. While she was alive, it didn't really matter to me. In fact I almost hated this painting because it just screamed falsehoods at me. We weren't this family, we were runaways and refugees. But Gamlen – I think for all that he's ruined himself he needs some kind of reminder of what he once was. So I left it."

Alistair just nodded. Hawke carefully replaced the painting but took out several other items, sorting through the contents several times. She seemed to be setting things aside, but then would change her mind and put them back only to remove something different. Alistair tried not to hover, but it was clear she was conflicted about something. Eventually she let out a long sigh and packed everything back up, catching his eye as she stood and shrugged "I thought I'd take some things with me but… I think I have enough ghosts in the house as it is."

As they left, she stopped and wrote out a note. "Alright, I think you've seen enough of this particular brand of depressing squalor. On to the next type!"

As they headed back out and Hawke re-set the lock, Alistair couldn't contain his curiosity "What did the note say?"

" 'If you had anything worth stealing I'd tell you to get a better lock.' He has issues with his personal space being invaded."

"But you could have been there and gone without him knowing."

"Yes, I could have." Hawke grinned up at him over her shoulder as they descended the stairs.

Alistair laughed "So here it is, your petty side finally rears its head."

Hawke shrugged "I've considered hiding fish under his floorboards before but I don't think he'd notice the smell."

Hawke looked to Fenris "Alienage?"

Fenris sighed "Must we?"

Hawke only nodded, causing Fenris to spit out some muttered oath in a language Alistair identified as Arcanum but was not familiar enough with to translate before he stalked off at speed down another narrow path.

Alistair asked quietly "What was that?"

Hawke grinned. "He said I'd be the death of him."

Alistair let out a big hearty laugh at that. "I'll have to remember that one"

"I've been trying to get him to teach me Arcanum while I teach him to read, but so far he hasn't agreed to it. I just think he doesn't want me to know all the things he mutters at me."

Alistair grinned "That's very wise of him. I think I like Fenris more and more."

Hawke playfully punched him in the arm just as they stepped into the Alienage. And it reminded him of every Alienage he'd ever been in to that point, though their vhenadahl was far more festively decorated than those he was accustomed to seeing and there were a greater number of offerings set around it. Teagan almost immediately began shooting questions at Alistair about the purpose of the tree, what the paintings meant, if all Alienages had these, and so on. It was amusing to think that Teagan had never actually stepped foot inside an Alienage and that somehow he'd decided that Alistair of all people was an expert on elves.

Given the fact that Hawke had wandered off and had been touching base with several elves in the area while Alistair answered Teagan's questions, he had the sneaking suspicion that they'd gone to the Alienage so that Hawke could talk to some of the people Varric had mentioned. Knowing that she did just as much work with the Viscount as she did with the alienage elves just made him think of the Blight. Solona was willing to do any little bit of work they found as long as there was coin promised. They outfitted an army on the back of her endless strings of what, at the time, seemed like petty jobs – many of which were less wholesome than he'd been comfortable with at the time. The head of Denerim's militia force, General Kylon, had been elevated after the war largely because Alistair knew him from his well-paying work clearing out gangs in the backstreets along the docks.

Meteoric rises in status were often lucked into or won through judicious application of lips to asses. Hawke apparently had decided to forego luck and simply work. Novel of her, really. While he watched over Teagan's shoulder, Hawke took up the hands of the worried elven woman in front of her, speaking to her with a serious look before flashing her a reassuring and compassionate smile, which the elven women returned gratefully. As Hawke walked back toward the group, she looked right at him, her mouth twitched up into a sort of wry half-smile. She had known he was watching her the whole time. So much for thinking he was getting away with something.

"So, are we ready for another exciting stop on our tour of places in Kirkwall that make you miss Ferelden?" Hawke looked between Teagan, Donal, and Alistair as she spoke.

"What did you have in mind?" Teagan sounded wary.

"Well, I know this is probably rubbing salt in a wound, but you should really see Darktown while you're here." She looked honestly remorseful for this, like a tutor forced to discipline them for not having done their reading.

"There's really a place here called 'Darktown'? Isn't that… rather ominous?"

Fenris grumbled from behind him "It's appropriate."

…**.**

**Author's note:** Posted two tonight because they are sort of expository/transitional chapters that don't have a lot of meat to them. Unless I get impatient, expect another update sometime this weekend.


	11. Chapter 11

Darktown was the most miserable place Alistair had ever been. It smelled like too many people packed in together, like fires built out of anything that could burn, like death and rot and suffering. Hawke and Fenris both seemed to not even notice, looking almost at ease here even if they weren't exactly striding through with big smiles on their faces. A few merchants who had set up shop here knew Hawke as well, though the greetings were little more than furtive, wary nods, in stark contrast to the effusive, back slapping kind of welcome she'd received in Lowtown. Alistair couldn't tell if it was a general sense of being on their guard or if they had some reason to fear Hawke personally. Hawke explained quietly as they went that she spent a great deal of time in this area in her first year here. Most of Athenril's smuggling operations worked out of the Undercity and relied heavily on the sewers and abandoned mining tunnels to get shipments to and from the coast. The fact that Athenril herself only took meetings in Hightown was always a point of eye rolling for all those who worked for her.

"I'm not well-liked here, but I've had enough… dealings… in this pit that most of them know better than to try anything."

Alistair tried not to be too obvious about looking around as they made their way further down into the darkness, broken up by small fires in pits that grimy and miserable faces huddled around. But he saw it as they moved though, the look of recognition on the people's faces. Some of them simply knew her while others huddled together more tightly as she passed, as if making themselves small so that she wouldn't notice them, cowed by her presence. Maker, what had she done in this place to receive this sort of deference and fear?

Speaking quietly, Hawke fell into step beside him, leaning toward him just slightly as they walked. "Treat them like wolves in a pack. Show them fear or hesitation and they will descend on you. Show them that their fangs are no threat to you and they will lose their nerve and wait for easier prey. They've vicious but, like any animal, understand not to toy with the things that make them bleed."

Her entire demeanor had changed the moment they rounded the corner into this warren of tunnels and filth. She stalked instead of walked. She flowed gracefully through the milling bands of shiftless and glowering men, around the piles of refuse, aware without being wary. Brows furrowed, it occurred to Alistair that she wasn't talking about the daggers strapped to her back, but her very existence. She was a dagger that shouldn't be toyed with, a weapon that would turn on you if you plied it the wrong way.

And just as quickly as it had come on, that sense of danger that was coming off her in waves disspated as she crouched in front of a family, discretely pressing a pouch into the waiting hands of the mother and making a tickling match out of checking the grimy child's frame to determine how underfed he was.

Standing again, she took a few steps to place a hand on Donal's arm, eyes serious. "Please stop being so obvious, Donal."

Donal blinked at her a moment and then subtly shifted his shoulders, uncoiling some from the extremely hunched stance he'd been in, giving her a short affirmative nod to tell her that he understood. Having a bulky man like Donal, no matter how casually dressed, creep along as he had been it was like throwing up a signal to anyone with eyes that he was there to protect someone.

Hawke sauntered back to Alistair and linked her arm through his. "You too. You look far too grim." They began walking again toward an area with natural light pouring in through large openings in the wall. He could see the cliffs at the harbor entrance to the city and the foot of one of the enormous statues flanking the rough walls.

"Oh, am I meant to be skipping or whistling merrily?"

"If you really want to. I'd be happy if you would stop white knuckling your fists for a start. I don't think anything will actually happen down here. I haven't had a new issue with the Carta for a while, the Coterie owe me more than they'll ever admit and will leave me alone. I just wanted you to see where most of the refugees have ended up."

"Is that who most of these people are? Fereldens?"

Hake nodded "Not the thugs… well, not most of the thugs. The majority of those are homegrown Marcher scum, not imported scum. The Fereldens with a disposition toward violence tend to populate the docks mostly, gathering there in warehouses, forming gangs. But the orphans, most of the women, and nearly all of the men older than their 20s are Fereldens. Lucky enough to get onto a ship, unlucky enough that the destination was Kirkwall."

Teagan had been walking on the other side of Hawke and looked vaguely sick at the thought, looking around wide-eyed at those they passed. "I… why hasn't the Viscount done anything?"

Alistair shook his head at this "They aren't his people. They're mine." Scowling, he found himself watching a small clump of children playing some made up game with little bits of stone. They were far too thin, grubby, easy targets for any number of monsters.

"This can't continue."

As they were heading down a set of stairs that circled around what Alistair could only define as a pit, obviously a former mining shaft left completely open, he heard a deep voice yell out and was swiftly pushed to the side, slammed against the wall. Hawke had shoved hard against him to push him out of the way and back toward Donal, swiftly unsheathing her daggers and leaping outward, off the stairs. She landed heavily on an armored dwaren man, knives buried to the hilt in the exposed areas on either side of his throat above his chestpiece. She tore them out in a twisting motion and immediately somersaulted forward, popping up in front of her next target and blocking the downward swing of his axe between her crossed daggers, simultaneously driving her booted toe into his knee.

Donal moved to cover Alistair and Alistair himself ran forward into the encroaching group of dwarves, unsheathing the short sword he'd brought with him and bringing his shield around. He almost needn't have bothered. Fenris swung out with that enormous broad sword, and he seemed to… glow… vaguely, letting loose a scream and slicing through the armor of no fewer than 5 of the men who had attempted to surround him. Hawke dashed between targets, tumbling, jumping, pausing to slash upward into exposed areas between armored plates, a kidney, a neck, the back of a knee. Those who wore no face protection were treated to pommel smacks that gave out sickening cracks as the bones around their eyes were broken, their noses mangled. Alistair smacked several of the dwarves back with his shield, incapacitating one completely and causing the other to stumble directly into Hawke's path. Hawke's forward momentum never wavered as she moved low, slashing at and meeting the dwarf's legs, effectively destroying any chance he had of staying upright and probably of ever walking again. Hawke finished the movement, tumbling forward in a roll and rising easily to her feet, catching Alistair's eyes and looking positively feral, bared teeth set below glittering eyes. Then it was gone as she flew back into the midst of the fight.

The dwarves only had eyes for her, only attacking Fenris out of a desperate need to keep him and that sword at bay. They weren't overly skilled though, often making clumsy swings, desperately hoping for any sort of contact. Donal remained in a more passive, protective stance, watching for anything that got too near to the king. And Teagan remained at the edges of the fight, only slashing out as needed to defend himself. Alistair continued to fight forward as another wave jumped down from above – where in the void had they been hiding? – and moved to a location where he'd be back to back with Fenris, providing shield cover as the elf lashed out in huge , powerful arcs that should have been weak and overextended from everything Alistair had learned of fighting but which connected and destroyed the bodies of those in the path of the sword.

Alistair saw one dwarf out of the corner of his eye seemingly disappear in a smoke bomb and heard Hawke yell out "Assassin! Watch your backs!," as she tumbled away from the area where the man had been and popped up in front of another attacker, elbowing him sharply in the face before driving both daggers into the vulnerable seams along his chest piece and twisting, a growl escaping her throat.

There were only a few fighters left and Fenris and Hawke moved as one unit to finish them off, Hawke ducking under Fenris's wide swings as if they'd choreographed the whole thing, sinking her blades into any bit of exposed flesh she could reach. The last of the dwarves dropped and it was only then that Alistair heard what sounded like a deep breath of air being taken in, turning just in time to see the dwarven assassin reappear and sink both his blades deep into Donal's back.

Alistair lashed out with his shield, stunning the assassin and then spun and followed through with his sword, neatly cleaving through armor and an arm and then running his sword straight through his chest. As he pulled his sword free, Hawke was already on her knees, rolling Donal over to check his wounds. Her brows were furrowed as if she were worried, but she was all business. She looked up at Alistair "Can you carry him? Or at least help Fenris carry him? He's too big for me to manage – the clinic is just up the next set of stairs."

Alistair handed his shield off to her, resheathing his sword. Donal was a big man – bigger than Alistair, certainly. The loosest of Alistair's shifts just managed to stretch across Donal's shoulders. But Alistair, with the help of Fenris and Hawke, was able to get him to his feet and then swing him over his shoulder so he could be carried. It wasn't comfortable for either man, but it would be far faster than trying to get him walking.

Hawke lead the way as Fenris checked over the corpses quickly for anything that might be important – a note, a message, any clue as to the nature of the attack and why they were so bent on going after Hawke specifically. Teagan looked vaguely stunned by the whole thing but regained his composure enough to follow, staggering along in Alistair's wake.

Hawke went through the double doors ahead of them and ushered them into wide space littered with cots and tables covered in herbs and potions, smoking crucibles and vials. Hawke directed Alistair to sit Donal down on a nearby surgical table while Hawke began undoing the light armor the man had been wearing, Alistair keeping him upright as she pulled off his chest piece, his bracers and vambraces, his shoulder guards, piling them on the floor. She didn't even pause to think about it, just set to stripping him, hands growing slippery in the blood that poured down his back. Once the armor was off, she got Donal completely onto his stomach and, using her blade to start a cut in the shirt ripped it neatly down his back, exposing the knife wounds. Donal was wheezing, a gurgling noise evident at the end of each labored exhalation. Hawke ripped chunks off of the shirt and pressed them to the wounds. "This will hurt," she said as she bore down on them, causing Donal to cry out and then fall into a coughing fit which splattered blood across his lips.

"Fenris, can you find Anders? He's probably back there in his office." Hawke's eyes turned to Alistair "Donal is lucky he's such a thick man. The knives punctured his lungs most assuredly but likely didn't go beyond."

Hawke then leaned over a little to talk directly to Donal, quietly, in a calm voice "You and I are going to be scar buddies, my friend. I think in Seheron that means we're married, but I won't hold you to it." Donal managed a wet laugh through the pain and the blood filling up his lungs and then fell back to coughing.

Anders came striding out of the back room, Fenris in tow. Hawke looked up at him and gave him a weak smile "I come bearing wounded."

Anders nodded "And it isn't even my name day. How thoughtful, Hawke," as he moved her hands aside and examined the wounds. He looked up at Hawke "Cleaning fluid and some clean rags, I'll get started on the internal injuries."

Alistair was just starting to come back down from his battle high and he started to realize that all of this was just so … familiar to him. This easy dance around the struggle to live through a battle that made you both incredibly casual while being incredibly serious. He'd never seen anyone fight the way Fenris had. It was astonishing. The man clearly had unique skills and the lyrium brandings had perhaps served to enhance them. Hawke on the other hand – Hawke was something else. He could only compare it to Zevran. But Zevran's fights always felt more choreographed, more clearly set steps where he got his opponents in the perfect position. Hawke on the other hand was a whirlwind of opportunistic stabbing and slashing, fitting in blows wherever they presented themselves, lashing out with fists as often as she did her knives and willing to user her whole body if necessary in the midst of a fight. He couldn't quite classify it. Anyone he'd known who fought that way had been trained to it. It wasn't a dance of blades for her like it was for Zevran or Lelianna – it was wilder than that. And that grin Hawke had shot him mid fight when she didn't even look out of breath… it was… stunning. He knew his appreciation skirted the line between honest appreciation of her skills and simply wanting to see more of the way she was able to move. It had been a very long time since seeing a woman on the battlefield had made his heat race quite like watching her had. He hadn't feared for her safety at all – he'd simply relished watching her move.

Hawke had moved away to gather what Anders needed and then set to cleaning the wounds on Donal's back herself, swiping away the dirt and sweat, checking for slivers of metal or other contaminants, flushing the wounds with clean fluid. The whole time she kept up a steady stream of conversation with Donal that was, admittedly, incredibly one sided as he continued to wheeze and gurgle. Anders moved his hands over Donal's back as the healing magic began to move out of him and through to Donal's injuries. Donal's breathing eased almost immediately and the bleeding slowed to a trickle. Anders then moved on to the external injuries and Alistair watched as the wounds knitted back together and the first puckered ridges of scar tissue began to form.

Anders finally leaned away, swaying slightly but keeping his feet. Placing a hand on Donal's shoulder Anders spoke to his patient "I'm going to apply a healing poultice and a bandage to keep it in place. You're going to be very sore and you might be coughing up the last of the blood for the next few hours. You should rest as much as possible tonight. Elfroot potion for pain, which Hawke should have on hand to provide you, but otherwise, you'll be back to rights very soon." Donal just nodded, looking relieved to be able to pull full breaths into his lungs once again.

Hawke brought over a poultice and bandages and then moved to Alistair as she wiped blood from her hands, pulling him aside and into a few waiting chairs. "Are you alright? You don't seem to really be here."

Alistair smiled at her "I'm not really here. I'm… I'm fine, truly. This sudden fight just really brings me back to the Blight. Kings don't have much cause for random street brawls."

Hawke angled her head down but looked up at him through her eyelashes, seeming almost bashful. "Ah, I see, I've finally hit the point where you realize this is all just a little too rough for your tastes." She rolled her shoulders and stretched her back slightly as she talked.

Alistair shook his head "You're so completely wrong. How can one person be as wrong as you are?" Hawke laughed at that. Continuing, Alistair smiled at her "I realize that I miss it. A lot. I spar with Donal and he keeps me in shape but it's not the same. Not that I'm saying I relish fighting for my survival every day, but there is a certain… appeal to it. I probably sound like a fool."

Hawke grinned at him "No, you don't. I understand. I spar with Fenris as often as he'll put up with me – sometimes as often as 3 times a week. And in between we have jobs, often of a mercenary nature, nearly always very dangerous. There's rarely a day that goes by in an average week when I don't pull my blades for some reason. And while I'd hardly say that's an easy way to live, it's one I've become accustomed to. It must be… difficult for you. And I imagine there aren't many people who understand that."

Alistair nodded "You're so completely correct. How can one person be as correct as you are?" Hawke let out a full on belly laugh at that, head tilted back, eyes closed. Alistair thought it was a strange sound to hear in a clinic full of sick and wounded, but it was… well... perfect. He sat smiling at her for a moment until they were interrupted by Fenris.

He handed Hawke a piece of paper, eyebrow furrowed "I don't think I understand this clearly".

"They actually left behind a clue?" Hawke asked as she began to read.

Fenris nodded "The assassin. Everyone else was clean."

Hawke read through it once, twice, and then folded it up. "I'll have Varric check it. But this is new."

"I'm going to go out on a limb here and guess that finding a note about yourself on a Carta assassin isn't a good thing."

Hawke looked at him appraisingly for a moment "And what makes you say they're Carta?"

Alistair, grinning, shook his head "You don't really forget Carta once you've fought them. We cleared out an entire strong hold and killed their leader while we were in Orzammar. At the time, I'd assumed they were confined to the city but later learned that they have cells throughout Thedas. If there is a band of even semi-well trained dwarves attacking you and you aren't Darkspawn, you're probably dealing with Carta."

Hawke nodded at that and even looked, dare he say it, a bit impressed. He wasn't sure if he should be proud of that or feel a little insulted so he let it pass without comment.

"Well, to answer your question – yes, it's not a good thing. I just… can't think of why they'd have started accepting contracts on me."

"You've got a price on your head?"

"It appears so. And an insultingly small one from the looks of it."

Fenris appeared worried. "Do not take this lightly." His voice was tinged with admonishment.

Hawke shook her head "I'm not Fenris. I'll be careful. But I have to be sure."

They exchanged a look and Alistair once again felt that there was some conversation that had happened while he blinked and that they were talking about more than just this bit of information.

Just then Anders stalked over, hands on his hips, looking thoroughly annoyed. "Hawke, you aren't even wearing armor. What were you thinking coming down here like that? Do you have a death wish now? Are you TRYING to get yourself killed?" It was an all-out scolding, fatherly in tone even.

Hawke just blinked up at him for a moment "And greetings to you too, Anders. Why yes, I'm fine, thank you for asking. You're doing alright as well? Well that's fantastic to hear."

Anders scowled at her "No, this isn't about my manners, this is about you not taking the first bit of care for yourself. It could have just as easily been you on that table over there. Would you still be joking then?"

Hawke tried to smile, but it didn't quite come across as sincere "Of course I would still be joking then, Anders. This is me we're talking about." But Anders didn't budge. Hawke sighed, "Anders, I was fine. I was with a group of heavily armed men. It's fine. I'm fine, not a scratch on me. I'm only upset that the assassin got the jump on Donal at all."

Anders's shoulders slumped slightly "I don't know why I bother, you won't listen to me anyway. Can I… " He looked at Fenris and Alistair "Can I talk to you privately for a moment?"

Hawke kept that same stilted smile on her face "Of course you can," as she rose and went with him to a far corner of the clinic where he hunched over toward her.

Fenris took the chair Hawke had been in and leaned toward Alistair "And let the game commence."

Teagan had been lingering in the background and had finally stepped forward and now stood beside Alistair. All three of them watched Anders and Hawke talk. And as far as Alistair could see, it was exactly as Fenris had described. Anders scolded. Hawke answered calmly. Anders scolded again. Hawke answered a little more strained, but still calmly. Anders's hands waved about and the scolding turned to pleading. Hawke let all pretense of calmness go and answered back, level but clearly annoyed. Anders looked panicked, then pleaded, hands wringing. Hawke remained annoyed, Anders looked miserable. Anders hung his head and said something. Hawke smiled, put a hand on his shoulder, but the look on her face was one of undeniable pity. Anders responded to the touch and not the expression, smiling meekly at her. She nodded and Anders looked thrilled.

Fenris muttered "Every time."

Alistair was trying not to judge too harshly since he had no idea what the conversation was really about, and he knew Fenris had a strong dislike for Anders and was therefore hardly the best judge of the situation. "Is anyone else like this with her?"

Fenris shrugged "Merrill can sometimes use guilt and pleading, but not to this level. Merrill is also very… childlike… in many ways. She doesn't seem to even realize she's using guilt. Anders on the other hand is… not childlike."

Alistair didn't know how he felt about this. He didn't like it. But it wasn't really his place to intrude. Hawke must have her reasons for continuing to placate the mage. It could be simply that he was useful to her – his healing abilities were certainly well trained. The impetuous part of his nature wanted to storm over there and demand to know what all that had been about. The larger part of him that was not a 10 year old realized that it was something he would probably only learn with time.

As Hawke finished her conversation with Anders and began to move away over toward Donal, Anders followed her with his eyes, a look of pure lovelorn ache on his face. That made him uncomfortable enough but then the expression changed into worry and Anders called out to her, causing her to stop and turn as he came up to her. As soon as she was turned Alistair saw it – the wound on her back and been teased open from the fight and fresh blood bloomed across the back of the tunic she wore.

Alistair was off his feet as well and moving toward the scene as Anders attempted to lift Hawke's shirt and Hawke spun on him and slapped his hands away. "You need to have that properly looked at. Obviously your houseguest did a poor job of it the first time. If you would have just let me take care of it…"

"It was fine until we were jumped by the Carta. I just… forgot about it and reopened it."

"And had you allowed me to heal it that would not have happened."

Alistair stepped up next to them "It was mostly cauterized anyway – what's reopened is most likely where I had to clean it."

"Cauterized? What in the blazes were you fighting?" Anders again made for the hem of Hawke's shirt, proving to Alistair that he was not the quickest on the uptake and Hawke spun on him again, this time grabbing his wrist and twisting it back over his elbow to make her point, causing the mage to squeak in surprise.

"Rage demon. Quentin summoned quite a few." Hawke's face was stony as she let go of his wrist. "Leave it alone, Anders."

At the mention of the other mage's name, Anders quieted, stepping back and rubbing at his overextended elbow. "I… I'm sorry… I… " he mumbled out as Hawke walked away and headed toward Donal. Alistair looked at Anders with sympathy, watching as the other man simply stared after Hawke's retreating back for a moment. He'd never seen someone look so utterly tormented from a few simple words and he truly felt bad for him.

"I'll apply another poultice and bandage to it soon, Anders." He'd hoped to sound reassuring, but the way the mage's eyes snapped back to him and his demeanor changed from downtrodden to haughty made it clear that Anders wanted none of it. "Thank you for taking care of Donal and for taking care of all these refugees as well. They'd be far worse off than they already are if not for you here lending them aid."

Anders just looked at him blankly for a moment before turning away and heading back into the back room. So much for trying to make peace.

Hawke had moved over to have a few words with Donal, who was now bandaged and sitting up. He looked pale and not exactly well, but for a man who had just taken two very deep stab wounds to the back he was looking much better than he had any real reason to. Hawke kept a steadying hand on the guard's arm as he stood off the table and left it there as they all converged near the front doors. "I think Donal could use a bed and some rest. We can head back up to the house and then decide what to do with our evening."

Alistair looked at her skeptically "It's a long trek back to the house and he doesn't even have a shirt. How do you propose we do this?"

Hawke grinned at him, "Don't underestimate me, Kingy. I know what I'm about."

Alistair laughed. "Then lead on, know it all."

Heading out the door of the clinic, Hawke turned the opposite way they'd come and was headed toward what looked exactly like a blank wall. When they got close to it, he saw that there was a flap of wood that just barely contrasted with the surrounding area. Hawke dug around in her side pack and produced a key, slotting it into place behind the flipped up wood panel, she gave the wall a push and it swung open to reveal a set of steps just barely visible. She removed her key, stepped inside, and dug around in her back for a moment again, producing a flint, which she struck against one of her daggers, lighting a wall torch. Having produced enough light for everyone to clearly see the stairwell, she motioned everyone inside and locked the door behind them.

Alistair smiled at her "You're full of surprises."

Hawke grinned and lead the way, torch held high, talking back to them over her shoulder, "Gamlen lost the estate to slavers. We never got the full story on how that happened exactly but it seemed like it was a bad bet in a card match. Who puts up their family's estate in a CARD GAME against SLAVERS?"

"Apparently your uncle Gamlen does," came the answer from Teagan.

Hawke snorted "Exactly so. Well, in talking to him, it didn't make any sense that mother's parents would leave her nothing at all in their will and then he said that the will was left behind in the vault here in the estate."

"Wait, we're in your estate now? "

"I'm getting to that part." Hawke paused, looking for another key. "Well my mother knew that the Amell estate's cellars ran very deep and that there was an entrance to them in Darktown. The speculation we entered into at the time had it that perhaps it was to make deliveries easier but I'd like to imagine the Amells were actually engaged in smuggling of their own. Mother didn't appreciate that entire line of thought on my part."

"We took a key she had to the cellars, cleared out the slavers in our path, and found the will in the vault, which we'll be passing shortly. It turned out that the Amells had left the estate and a large sum of money to my mother and any of her children. Gamlen simply never informed her of it and we never would have known had Bethanny and I not broken in."

Fenris piped up "But you still had to buy back the estate from the city."

"Right. It was legally my mother's but through some elaborate course of action, because the slavers had ownership of the home and because they were engaging in illegal activities inside the home, the city-state of Kirkwall took over the deed and we had to pay market price for the property to get it back. And then I had to clear out the slave pens and renovate it heavily to get it livable again."

The cellars let out finally into a hallway that ran alongside the kitchen and Bodahn popped up to usher Donal into a room where he could rest.

Hawke turned to Alistair and Teagan – "So, is Kirkwall everything you thought it could be?"

Teagan nodded "It's certainly been informative. I think we now have a much clearer idea about the refugee issues here. And also, I don't think anyone in Denerim is really... aware… of the issues with Slavers."

Alistair spoke then "I imagine the elves are very aware. But no one gives their concerns any credence. We both know, Teagan, that slavers operate within the confines of Ferelden. For years the country has turned a blind eye because they tend to take people that are already without families or who happen to be elves. If they were snatching up Banns left and right you can be sure there would be uproar about it."

"Even in Kirkwall the slaver issue is one that gets little attention. The Viscount treats them as a nuisance, but not one he's willing to put any energy into. Given that the entire city-state was once a Tevinter holding I think there is a lingering acceptance of slavery here, just as there is a lingering acceptance of Orlais due to their occupation. Kirkwall is a city of chains in many ways."

Teagan nodded thoughtfully. "Well, I have a great deal of correspondence to get out and, Alistair, I wanted to ensure that we got out some of the policy changes and thoughts we've had while on this trip. I want to make sure Eamon is already working on them by the time we arrive back. I will leave the night to you young people. One simple battle today was more than enough for me."

Teagan patted Alistair on the shoulder as he went past and Hawke called "Goodnight!" out to Teagan.

"Let's make the rest of our plans in the kitchen. I'm starving." It was only just early evening but Alistair had to agree. As they made their way in, Alistair gently caught Hawke's elbow "Allow me to look at the wound on your back first?"

"Oh… I'd nearly forgotten about it again. Yes, I should probably change my shirt as well. Fenris – please feel free to get started without us."

Hawke turned and led the way up to her room. Orana had obviously been busy cleaning and the room had been aired out, with the breeze still wafting in through half opened windows. Hawke pulled together two chairs facing each other and then straddled the one, leaving Alistair a place to sit to look at her back as he gathered the basket of bandages and sundries.

"I'm sorry about the scuffle in Darktown. It didn't occur to me until we were there that it was likely a bad idea."

As Alistair settled behind her and prepared a length of bandage he laughed a bit "So nearly getting cut down in a random alley way is a scuffle in your book?"

Hawke turned her head and grinned at him over her shoulder "There weren't enough bodies to call it a battle, really. And they didn't try very hard. So scuffle it is."

Hawke lifted the back of her shirt and pulled it off her head so her entire back was bared to him. Had there not been a nasty wound in the midst of everything it would have been quite the image. Truthfully it still was. Because of the way she sat on the chair the belt of her breeches rode how across her back and exposed the dimples on either side of her spine right at the base. Now that he was looking at her in the light and he wasn't frightened of her being set off at the slightest wrong move, he found himself admiring the sleek musculature of her back, the flare of her hips. He set to cleaning the newly filthy edges of the wound as gently as possible despite the distraction. She laid her head down on her arms folded across the back of the chair and looked… relaxed, almost as if she were getting a massage rather than having a suppurating wound tended to.

She had a few other scars on her back and while he worked, he couldn't help but wonder after what their stories were. Then he spotted the wounds that she'd referenced when talking to Donal in the clinic. They were obviously two knife wounds that were evenly spaced between her shoulder blades. Depending on the angle of the knives they easily should have gone through her lungs with very long knives going even deeper and doing more damage.

Running a finger along one of them, the muscles in her back twitched as she tensed "Are these from a Carta assassin?"

Hawke didn't move further but nodded her head as Alistair ran a finger along the first scar's twin. "I hadn't been in Kirkwall long, I didn't know much about the Carta. But they didn't like anyone who worked for Anthenril since she cut into their business. I got attacked along with some of Athenril's newer recruits and one of her veterans who, brave man, turned and ran. I guess that's how he'd lived so long. I was the only one of the newer recruits to survive the experience. A few of the beggars in Darktown took pity on me and carted me back to Athenril, who had a healer. It was a close thing, and laid me up for several weeks during which Athenril refused to pay me, but… I made it. Her healer didn't have half the skill as Anders, though – Donal will be fine very soon."

Alistair began to apply a health poultice to wound on her back and was still staring at the scars there between her shoulder blades and another one further down her side which looked older. Running the back of a finger along this one as well, caressing it even where it snaked along her ribs, she twitched again and shifted slightly. "And this one?"

Letting out a little stuttered breath – because of the story behind it or his roaming fingers, he couldn't tell - "Hurlock, Ostegar. One of the rare untainted wounds received there, apparently."

"From the main battle?"

Hawke shook her head "No, I was a scout. There were some random bands moving in the wilds about a week before the main battle. I had to engage them in order to give another group of soldiers who were mustering – some lord or another's personal army - time to make it away and didn't dodge quickly enough. Thankfully they had an archer with them who had found a ridge and was covering me. They dispatched the Hurlock and one of them came back for me."

Pulling out a length of linen as she spoke, Alistair inched forward, his knees splayed along either side of her hips as he laid a folded cloth over the poultice to hold it in place and began to wind the fabric around Hawke's middle to keep it all secured. This effectively put her ear to ear with Alistair as he wound the fabric around her, his chin on her shoulder as he passed the cloth in front. It was… cozy. He may have made a few more passes than were strictly necessary. Maybe. Eventually he tore the end of the cloth lengthwise and handed the ends to her to tie off around her chest and placed the rest of the supplies back in the basket and put them on a nearby table.

He leaned against the table and watched as Hawke made her way around the room, digging through the armoire for another tunic and then heading into the separate chamber and behind the screen.

"You know, I can't think of many people who have fought mercenaries, darkspawn, and Qunari. You're racking up quite the wide range of experience. I know men who would be jealous of your exploits."

"Are any of those men named Alistair Theirin?" Hawke called from the other room as her soiled shirt came whipping out and smacked him in the face.

He chuckled as he folded up the shirt and laid it over a chair, keeping the bloodstain on the inside away from the wood "Perhaps. It has certainly crossed my mind that you're younger than me and are nearly pacing me when it comes to battle experience."

Hawke came out of the chamber, tucking her tunic in to her leather pants and re-buckling her belt. "Oh I doubt that. But we can compare notches over food – I'm starved."

He happily followed her down to the kitchen where Fenris was sitting before a table piled with a loaf of bread, some cheese, some salted meat and fruit, though he had waited for them to arrive before eating any himself. They ate and talked, with Hawke and Fenris filling him in on sundry details. He got the full story about Merrill and her ouster from her clan as well as some more information about Anders and his clinic. Hawke seemed uncomfortable every time the topic of Anders came up, causing Alistair to shift to other topics. The more he saw of the interaction between Hawke and Anders the less he liked it, even without Fenris's opinions on the matter.

Alistair was also given the opportunity to ask all the questions that had arisen from his tour of the city. Some more history of the group's dealings with the Qunari, the state of the refugees in darktown, and what he'd been truly itching to know more about – the price on Hawke's head.

"Do you think it's Petrice's people?" Fenris asked the question but he seemed to already know.

Hawke nodded "I think so, but we can't be sure just yet. It's definitely Chantry prices."

Alistair interrupted "Wait, hold on… Petrice as in "kill the Qunari, incite the people" Petrice? The sister?" One of Hawke's letters had given him some deep insight into exactly what was happening with the Chantry and what she was up against when it came to keeping everything with the Qunari under control.

Hawke sighed "She's moved up in the world. It's Mother Petrice now and, yes, she has a whole network of people who are sure I'm going against the maker's will by being civil with the Qunari. She's been at the head of nearly every ridiculous provocation thus far and she's thoroughly convinced of her rightness. She's not just vile. She's vile AND a true believer."

Fenris jumped in "And apparently she's tired of the thorn in her side, Hawke. If she's making moves like this, she's ready to have you gone."

She laughed without humor then, "Too bad I'm not vidithari, huh? The Karastaan would take care of it for me."

Fenris shook his head "Don't even joke about that. The Arishok would consider you a valuable trophy."

Alistair quirked an eyebrow at that. "I don't know enough about the Qunari, truthfully, so forgive my ignorance, but it was my understanding that they were rather more black and white than that. They may take people but it's for conversion, not as… pets."

Fenris shook his head slightly "It would be for conversion. But the Arishok has already shown far too much interest in Hawke than is wise to encourage."

"Interest?" Alistair looked between the two of them and Hawke laughed.

"He's not sending me flowers and asking me on quiet walks in the park or anything like that, Alistair. He just… talks to me, answers my questions."

Alistair recalled the way Sten had spoken about the Arishok – the man had a question and it would be answered on pain of death. Failure was not allowed. He had difficulty picturing such a man sitting down and having a chat with just about anyone.

"We could always pass by for a visit, you know. It's not uncommon for me to be in the compound frequently."

"Don't bring undue attention to yourself for my sake, Hawke." He was hasty in his response and hoped the slightly panicked feeling at the prospect of facing down a Qunari compound hadn't squeeked through in his protest.

"Well, we don't have to deci-"Hawke's mouth went wide with a huge yawn that had obviously snuck up on her, causing her jaw to pop in the process. She finish with a long "aaaaah" sound. "Sorry about that – guess today took more out of me than I thought."

"You should rest, Hawke." Fenris stood and began strapping his sword to his back again. "You know where I am should you need me."

Hawke just sleepily nodded at him and turned a slight smile to Alistair as Fenris quietly left the house. "How about you? Even if I skulk off to sleep you don't have to join me. The library is full and the house as a whole is at your disposal."

"No, as much as I hate to admit it, I think today was exciting enough. I don't need to investigate the dark corners of your personal library to boot."

Hawke grinned at him "Expect to find something saucy? Varric has left a few of his books here, after all – I'm sure "Hard in Hightown" would be illuminating…"

Alistair just smiled and stood "If it doesn't include at least one prisoner interrogation through seduction I'm not interested."

Hawke took the hand he proffered to help her from her seat and her grin spread across her face. "You have no idea just how accurate you are, Alistair."

Heading into her room, she went into the bathing chamber. Instead of working up a full bath, though, she used water from a single pail that had been warming by the fire and simply wiped herself off, getting the sweat off her skin.

When she came back out Alistair was sitting in the wing chair by the bed, seemingly lost in thought. She pulled her hair up and twisted it into a knot at the top of her head, sitting by the desk to pull off her boots. "Copper for your thoughts?"

Alistair's eyes came back into focus and he smiled at her, noticing the long curve of her neck and the few hairs that had slipped out of her impromptu coif. "You'd be overpaying I'm afraid." Alistair sighed "As much as I love this wing chair, I have to ask – is there another room I can sleep in? I've obviously become too pampered and miss a real bed."

Hawke seemed startled "Oh! I hadn't even thought about that. I'm so sorry! Uhm… let me think… I … well... no there isn't. The only free room is mother's and … "

Alistair held up his hand "No, I understand. I saw that Bodahn had had a few extra beds brought up for the guards staying here and between them and Teagan, they're taking up two rooms. Then there's this room and... your mother's… I just wasn't sure how big the house was, that's all. It's a very *nice* wing chair."

Hawke shook her head, "I can't make you sleep in the chair, Alistair. You can have the bed for the night. I'll take the chair or go to the Hanged Man." Hawke was already gathering up her boots to slip them back on

"What? I'm not going to kick you out of your bed or your house, Hawke. It's no problem."

"No, you're not sleeping in that chair."

Alistair huffed at her "You really are that stubborn aren't you?"

"Yes, I really am. You're sleeping in the bed and that's final."

"Well then you are as well."

Hawke blushed. She felt it run up her face and then realized she was blushing, which made her blush harder. Alistair saw her blushing and started to blush himself.

Hawke started laughing "We are both complete idiots, Alistair. You realize that, don't you?"

"Yes, I think I do."

"Look, we'll share the bed. It's a huge bed. I got the biggest one I could get because I'd just been sleeping on a cot for a year and suddenly had money enough to splurge. I usually sleep with Noodle stretched out full length beside me and still manage to keep from being pushed out. As long as you don't have doggy mutton breath or have dreams of running all night, I think we can manage this. And I won't tell Teagan if you won't."

Alistair was suspicious suddenly "What does Teagan have to do with it?"

"I just saw him giving you that _look_. I had a younger brother and sister, you'll remember. If a boy so much as looked at me twice it was suddenly that look. Like they have a question, but they want to laugh at you at the same time. You just know that they're going to start asking you uncomfortable questions. I don't want to encourage that look from Teagan toward either of us, but especially you."

"Right, that. Don't worry, I've been getting that look from him since I was about 10. Teagan has been eager for me to declare myself in love and swoon and serenade and court to a degree that makes me wonder if his own marriage is all that sound if he has to live through me vicariously."

"Good. It's settled then. We'll share the bed." Hawke turned on her heel and went into the bathing chamber again, snatching up a shift on her way, apparently deciding that this required no further discussion.

It's not that Alistair minded sharing the bed, not at all. There were just alarms going off in his head about propriety and her grief and how inappropriate this was and how he didn't want to take advantage of her, even though he wouldn't do anything but sleep of course. It was ridiculous. And he decided that he wasn't going to give in to the panic. While the bathing chamber was closed, he quickly slipped out of his longer breeches and pulled off his tunic, and settled into the bed in just the soft short pants he wore closest to his skin. He refused to allow himself to get up and pace, wring his hands or fret. It was a pretty marvelous bed. He thought it might be better than his bed in Denerim actually. And what exactly were these sheets made of? They were incredibly soft.

Hawke took her time getting changed in the other room. It was just a bed. He was going to sleep, snore, maybe drool a little. He was going to be all the way over there on his side and she would be on her side. It wouldn't be any more intimate than sleeping next to Fenris when they were forced to camp. In fact, it would likely be far less intimate given the number of times they were forced to push up against each other for warmth when the weather turned. The number of times they'd huddled together, chest to back, hips aligned, legs tangled and his hands pushed under the outer layer of her clothing and wrapped around her to ease their mutual shivering would have put her mother into fits had she known.

Even if she were in a state of mind to make something more of this, he was the king of Ferelden and she probably still smelled of sweat and the bruised quality to her eyes hadn't receded entirely from her crying the previous day. You're going to go in there, Marian, and you're going to go to sleep. Stop making a big deal out of this.

When Hawke stepped out of the bathing chamber, she saw Alistair was already in bed and it was impossible to tell if he was wearing anything or was nude because all she could see was the expanse of chest that peeked up over the sheets. He had several large scars visible as well as myriad minor ones, one that snaked around his side along the bottom of his ribs and another that slashed down across one of his pectoral muscles just over his heart that looked like it had been deep, vicious. She nearly turned back around, another wave of panic hitting her at the sight of this ridiculously well-built and handsome man lounging against her headboard. But she covered it and went to snuff the lights, quickly crawling into the bed on her own side and trying to banish the image of him half naked with his warrior's body next to her in the dark.

They laid there in silence for a long time, neither of them sure if the other was asleep already, if they should talk, or if that would be awkward. Finally Alistair reached over in the dark and Hawke, not sure what he was looking for, held out a hand to let him know where she was. He took her hand and kissed her knuckles and then let it go, saying "Goodnight, Hawke."

She smiled to herself, "Goodnight, Alistair"


	12. Chapter 12

Alistair became aware of several things at once the next morning. The light coming in through the breaks in the curtains, the coolness of his shoulder where he hadn't had the sheet pulled up, and four hard lumps pressed into him – two on his back, two against his thighs. As he tried to shift to see what in Thedas was actively trying to push him out of the bed this way, the lumps shifted and there was a disgruntled sounding huff.

Noodle was laying between Alistair and Hawke on the bed, sharing Hawke's pillow and stretching all four of his legs out as far as they could go. He was clearly awake now, but hadn't bothered to lift his head, and instead just peeled open one lazy eye and looked at Alistair as if the shifting had disturbed him. Alistair had honestly never shared a bed with a Mabari. Dogs – yes, of course. They were all that kept him warm in the winter when he lived in the stable at Redcliffe. But even three of the dogs they'd had in the stables couldn't have taken up as much space as this one Mabari.

As Alistair rearranged himself and leaned back against the headboard, he realized that Hawke was practically spooning with the beast, her chest pressed up against his back, her face pillowed on his shoulder and her arm wrapped over him, hand laying on his smooth belly. Smiling, he realized that no one could possibly question the appropriateness of him having stayed the night if they could see this image now. He wouldn't have had a chance to get anywhere near the woman with this sort of obstacle in place.

Alistair slid out of the bed as carefully as he could, not wanting to disturb either Noodle or Hawke, and made his way to the bathing chamber. Waking to Hawke and the dog was just so… domestic. In different circumstances it would have been exactly what he'd imagined he wanted, but the parts were all wrong. This wasn't his home, Hawke wasn't his in any way at all, even the dog had no real connection to him. As he scrubbed tepid water across his face and chest he suddenly felt as if he were misplaced, intruding.

He heard Hawke mumbling to the Mabari in the next room and Noodle's answering grumbles and growls before a startled yelp. Shooting back around the door, he found Noodle stretched out even further on the bed, taking up the majority of the space, and Hawke on the floor beside it, hair in her face as she grabbed handfuls of the sheets and yanked. The attempt to displace Noodle had no effect and she let out a noise of frustration and actually kicked her feet – kicked her feet!- like a particularly upset three year old. The sharp bark of Alistair's laugh caused her to blow her hair out of her face and glare up at him. "Yes, hilarious."

"Why not just get him his own bed?"

Hauling herself off the floor, Hawke put both hands on Noodle's back and pushed, really leaning into it, but only managed to shift him a few inches. "He HAD his own bed! He still slept in mine so we got rid of it." She went around the opposite side of the bed and grabbed the blanket the Mabari was sprawled on, planting one foot against the bed frame and pulling, which finally scooted Noodle over.

"Shift your great hairy ass you ungrateful beast!" Suddenly, he apparently tired of being pushed around and leapt off the bed. The tension in the blanket gone, Hawke landed once again on her backside, taking a heavy "whump" of bedding in the face as Noodle took circles on the carpet near the hearth until he was satisfied and laid down with a grunt. Alistair wasn't sure what this new and interesting mood for Hawke was – he hadn't seen her be this petulant before. But, Maker, it was difficult to keep a straight face through the whole thing even as he worried if he had somehow been the cause of it. As if sensing his amusement, Hawke glared at him again and then, instead of reclaiming the bed she'd just been fighting for, flipped the blanket over her back and pulled it around herself like a cloak, curling up on the floor.

When it became apparent that she meant to lay there on the floor and go back to sleep simply to spite the dog and the bed and possibly him for laughing at her, Alistair made his way over to the edge of the bed and sat down, thankful that she wasn't looking at him as he struggled to keep his face impassive.

"So I take it you don't wake up well."

Hawke shot up again "No, I don't wake up well. And now my ass is bruised you… snicker-weasel!" She laid back down just as quickly, shifting her shoulders in a pointedly uncomfortable, disgruntled manner. Alistair worked very hard not to break out in another laugh. Snicker-weasel?

"Ooookay. Well. I will uh… leave you alone then?"

Hawke didn't answer him.

Interesting. While it hadn't occurred to him that the morning _after_ she left the house would prove the most challenging set of time he'd been there, he supposed it had to happen eventually. Everything else had been… simple really. She'd almost made it too easy on him. He slipped back into his pants and his shirt as he kept an eye on her. She seemed determined at this point to try to go back to sleep on the floor so… so be it.

It wasn't until Alistair had left the room that he realized from the other open curtains on the landing that it was actually rather late in the morning. Typically he couldn't sleep more than an hour or two past first light without feeling stiff and out of sorts all day. That bed certainly was better than the one he had in Denerim. He'd have to ask her who made it. Later. Once she was awake. And perhaps even later than that if her current mood was any indicator.

Descending barefoot into the main hall, he realized he was likely being far more informal than he truly should be. Despite his earlier misgivings about being out of place, something about Hawke's home made him feel… comfortable. The usual ache that accompanied such thoughts, the feelings of having a real home, of having a family, was strangely gone. It wasn't truly his, but it was nice enough to be in it for a time and he refused to ruin it through over-examination. He had few enough truly relaxing things in his life these days.

The main hall was once again dominated by the large table laden with food and drink and he was surprised to see Donal sitting up at the table, talking to Sebastian of all people. Donal looked ridiculously well for someone who'd been coughing up blood from punctured lungs just the day before. It seemed Alistair would have to give Anders at least a little credit for being what appeared to be a marvelous healer. Donal stood when he noticed Alistair and Sebastian was equally quick to his feet.

"Good afternoon, your majesty."

"Good afternoon to you as well Donal, how are you feeling?"

Shrugging his massive shoulders as Alistair motioned him to sit back down, Donal let out a sigh "A bit sore, but all things considered, I'm doing quite well. Thank you for asking."

Alistair took his seat and noted that Sebastian remained standing until he'd settled himself. It was something that only someone familiar with the rules of court would have done. Alistair began to fix himself a plate, picking over the bread, cheese, and smoked meats that were laid out. "And you, Sebastian? What brings you here today?"

"Just hoping to check on Hawke and see how she was doing, your majesty."

"Please, Sebastian – I haven't used your title, there's no reason for you to use mine."

"Ah, well, you see, your majesty – I have no title. My father was prince of Starkhaven, not I."

Nodding while he chewed, Alistair wondered if Sebastian was just putting on a show of being humble. He hadn't had the opportunity to get much of a sense of Sebastian, but Hawke seemed to trust him well enough. "Perhaps that's true. I know I was loathe to take on the mantle of responsibility when it was thrust upon me."

Sebastian looked startled at that. "It is not the responsibility of the position that makes me say that I am not prince, your majesty – it's simply the truth. My cousin is the current prince of Starkhaven."

Settling his elbows on the table in front of him, Alistair gave Sebastian his best "let's stop dancing around the issue look" – a look he'd gotten quite good at – "The line of Princes of Starkhaven is passed through bloodlines, correct?"

"Yes, your majesty."

"And you are the direct descendant of the previous Prince, correct?"

"The only one that still lives, yes, your majesty." Alistair caught the hint of bitterness in his tone.

"Which would make you the rightful Prince of Starkhaven. I needn't ask if I'm correct – I know that I am. You are healthy, hale, not incapacitated, and not currently set to any vows that would preclude you from retaking your throne. So, why is it that you've allowed your cousin to take your place?"

Sebastian visibly paled at the line of questioning. He obviously hadn't expected Alistair to be so blunt. And normally, he wouldn't be. But the state of Starkhaven had put him in a bind personally when it came to the well-being of Ferelden and that lead him to be bolder than usual.

"There are many reasons for that, your majesty. First of all – "

"It's Alistair, Sebastian. We're not at court." He smiled gently at the man as he popped another bit of cheese in his mouth.

"Oh… of course. Alistair." He said the name as if testing it and waiting for a bolt of righteous etiquette lightning to strike him dead. When he hadn't fallen over in crispy bits, he continued. "Yes, well first of all, Goran has been in power for several years now. It would take a great deal of support from the nobles in Starkhaven and possibly even an army to retake the throne now. In addition to that, I do not want to rashly throw the people of Starkhaven into the midst of a war for the purpose of my own… ambition." The word "ambition" was spoken with such disdain.

"Those are both good reasons. But there is a much stronger counter-point here – the people of Starkhaven are suffering under their current leader."

Looking dubious and disturbed, Sebastian's eyebrows scrunched together, "How can you be sure of that, your…. Alistair?"

"I was there just a few weeks ago. Goran is running your homeland into the ground. I'd gone there to secure what I had hoped would be a very beneficial trade agreement. One that would have given Ferelden the grain stores it needs to make it through the next winter without fear of widespread starvation and would have been perhaps the largest and most lucrative contract Starkhaven had ever forged outside of its longstanding agreements with Antiva. Goran never so much as allowed the conversation to start, however, claiming pressing business elsewhere."

"Perhaps you simply misread the situation? I can't believe that Goran, though he is a poor substitute for my father, would lead the state to ruin."

Alistair leaned back in his chair and folded his arms across his chest, taking on what he knew to be a rather imperious and stern look. "So now you assume I'm an idiot who couldn't possibly understand the situation." Sebastian began to interrupt him, but with a haughty little hand shake, he continued "I spoke to a great many people in the city and the farmlands as well as a number of representatives from various merchants groups and guilds. It is not my opinion, Sebastian, but simple fact – your homeland is dying by inches. Your family name has gone from being synonymous with prosperity and protection to being something that more than one herder would only speak followed by hocking a great gout of spit. You should be thankful that they still only blame the current Vael for the situation and have not begun to wonder why you lack the backbone of your forebears."

Sebastian stared at Alistair, blank faced, but with such an intense look in his eye. There, finally, something other than self-pity or insecurity. That's what he'd been digging for, hoping for.

Alistair leaned forward again, smiling slightly "I tell you this because you need to know. Not from speculation, not from a position of wondering and not being sure – but from one sovereign to another. This type of responsibility cannot be hidden from, cannot be put off or foresworn. Hate it as you might – and Maker knows I've cursed it myself – there is a reason your blood has been tied to the throne in Starkhaven for so long. You're the true heir. Not because of your name, but because of the man you are capable of being. Do not let fear condemn your people to living a life that is less than it could be."

While Sebastian's eyes were just as intense, his countenance shifted somewhat. He looked… scared. Good. Fear is what he should feel. It's what Alistair felt every morning when he realized the great responsibility set out before him. It's what he felt when he went to sleep knowing what he was tasked with the following day. It was the feeling that crept through his veins every time he so much as looked out the window in his study and knew in his bones that all of those people out there, every ounce of their lives, was his responsibility in some way.

In the first year of his rule, he was sure the fear would break him. But it had only made him stronger. He'd come to realize that a true ruler needed that fear or they too easily became lazy and complacent, or worse, a tyrant. He hoped Sebastian would be the same and simply lacked the push in the right direction.

"I thank you for telling me this, Alistair. I … I do not know when or how I may be able to reclaim my family's lands but… you've made me think that I must. I… " He glanced around, looking pale and lost. "I feel I must go pray on this. If you'll excuse me." He bowed his head once quickly and then left the table, heading with speed toward the front door.

Alistair stood as he called out "Sebastian!" The prince turned just as he opened the door "When you are prepared to retake Starkhaven let me know. I will commit what I can to your cause – anything I can spare."

Sebastian took a breath and simply nodded his head once again before leaving.

As Alistair sat back down, Donal let out a chuckle.

Quirking a grin at him, Alistair reclined in his chair, kicking his ankle up on his knee. "Was that amusing to watch?"

Donal shook his head "I don't think I'll ever get used to you lighting fires under men's asses the way you do, Alistair. You seem to enjoy it too much."

"Now if only I could be half as self-assured at the average Landsmeet, I feel like I could knock out the rest of Ferelden's issues in a week or two and spend the next year taking long naps in the garden."

"You're a little young to be thinking of retirement already. Besides, it's not like there's an heir yet to pass anything along to."

"Oh but I could just name an heir. Someone who has proven themselves in loyalty. Captain of the guard, for instance."

Donal choked on his mouthful of ale and Alistair laughed at his spluttering. When Donal's steely eyes finally met his, Alistair grinned and shrugged one shoulder. "Just a thought."

Before Donal could work up an appropriate response, the front door opened again and Fenris came waltzing through, looking downright breezy compared to his usual hunched and hunted demeanor.

"Hello Fenris, how are you today?"

Fenris stopped at the end of the table and bowed slightly, ever formal, "I am well, and how is Hawke?"

"Uhm… angry as far as I can tell. She lost a fight with her mabari and a blanket. She was trying to sleep on the floor when I left her."

Fenris rolled his eyes muttering "I'll take care of it," as he strode off up the stairs. Some muffled shouts, a loud thump, and some not so muffled shouts followed shortly after. Looking up at the landing, it looked to Alistair like Fenris had been forcibly ejected from the room, skipping a few times on his feet as he slowed down.

Hawke yelled "I HATE YOU!" and slammed the door after him.

He looked neither upset nor pleased with himself as he made his way back down the table and sat down. "She's awake now."

Alistair and Donal glanced at each other but neither one of them were sure if it would be wise to inquire further about what had just happened. Alistair had to assume that this was normal. While that was a good sign, he supposed, it also made him wonder about how Hawke typically slept if she always woke up in such a foul mood.

After several more minutes of silence, the door to Hawke's room opened again and Noodle bounded down the stairs, followed by a still yawning Hawke. She was dressed in some fitted pants, her tall boots, and a sloppily tucked in simple shirt. Noodle immediately went from person to person around the table, checking out each of them before settling down once again in front of the hearth.

Hawke practically threw herself into the chair beside Alistair and, without a word of greeting or even a glance at anyone else, began pouring herself something to drink and piling bread and fruit on her plate. Donal and Alistair picked at the food on their plates while Hawke ate in silence. Once she was done she leaned back and looked up at them all for the first time.

"And how is everyone?"

Alistair was a little startled. There wasn't a hint of recrimination or annoyance in her voice, her lips were quirked just slightly at the corners as if she were on the cusp of a smile that just lingered there but never bloomed. She looked expectantly between the three of them.

Clearing his throat, Alistair started "I'm well, thank you for asking. Are… you… well?"

"Of course. In fact, I was wondering if you would be up for some sparring today. I've spent too much time in bed or unmoving the last few weeks. It makes me feel dull and tired."

"Oh. Right. Sure, sparring is fine. I would recommend Donal abstain due to his injuries though."

Hawke looked honestly disappointed for a moment "And I was looking forward to poking a bear this morning, too."

Donal grinned at her "Be careful what you ask for, My Lady. I'm not such a gentleman that I'd hesitate to lay you out cold."

Hawke laughed, eyes sparkling "Oh I'd counted on that." Then she winked at him.

Alistair wasn't sure if they were flirting or if this was just posturing. He'd been put off balance by everything so far that morning from Hawke's childish demeanor when she woke up through to now when she was almost merry about everything.

"Right. Once you're finished, you can grab whatever armor you'd like to use – keeping in mind you'll be going against me or Fenris or both of us – and we'll head out."

"And where do you suggest we do this sparring? You don't exactly have a practice ring here."

Hawke laughed "Fenris's house, of course."

…

Alistair looked down at the pile of bones by the front door as Fenris set about lighting torches "That can't be sanitary"

Noodle was bolting up the stairs toward the back of the house and Hawke laughed, opening a door into a side room "You should have seen it when he first started squatting here. It took a week to convince him to actually clear out the corpses, but he insisted we leave the bones to ward off any other squatters and to serve as a message to any more slavers who might try to find him here."

She re-emerged with a leather chest piece for herself and an array of weapons, all blunted for sparring purposes. "So, who is going first?" Hawke laid the weapons out across a step and Alistair went through them until he found one of a good weight, swinging it experimentally. Fenris chose the weapon that would obviously be his, an enormous great sword. While Alistair could certainly fight with a weapon like that, it was ever his preference to find with a shield, partially due to training as a Templar and partially because he enjoyed using the shield as a weapon in its own right. The truth was he wasn't sure he could best either of them - which just made the whole thing for interesting for him.

"Why don't you and Fenris go first."

Hawke grinned "Oh, so you can try to figure out our styles and look for weaknesses? I know your game." Alistair smiled at her, clearly caught. "But sure, we'll go first. Fenris? Remember now, I'm an injured, petit flower." Hawke walked to the center of the room and waited for him. Fenris let out a barking noise that Alistair took as him scoffing at the idea of Hawke being delicate, but he never walked over. He simply started launching attacks from where he was, sprinting at her and forcing her to bounce backward, crouch and then roll forward to try to maneuver behind him. At first, Alistair was shocked, a sneak attack in a sparring match? But both Hawke and Fenris acted like this was the most normal thing in the world and continued to fight back and forth. And Alistair did try to study their styles, and especially their defenses.

Normally someone swinging a great sword would leave themselves open to many attacks simply through the nature of using such a heavy weapon that had to be swung out wide, away from the body to be effective. But Fenris made up for these gaps with speed. Despite how fast Hawke was in her own right, Fenris had landed three hits on her, each of which would have been crippling, in the time it took Hawke to get in just one. The problem became evident only as the match went on. While Fenris was fast and incredibly strong, he did not have the stamina to maintain that speed. He was a burst fighter. Hawke, on the other hand barely seemed to have broken a sweat. When she saw Fenris start to flag, her attacks became heavier, harder, pushing her advantage. She knocked him off his feet more than once, running right at him and barreling into him in a move Alistair had never seen a rogue use before. The mixture of dexterity and brute strength that both of them employed was strange to him – but clearly effective. They were both adaptive fighters, but Hawke was far more opportunistic and far more willing to create openings than simply wait for them to occur.

Eventually, when the number of hits had evened up, they abruptly stopped fighting. Neither had said a word, and Alistair hadn't seen any signal pass between them but they seemed to just know when the other was done.

Alistair spoke as Hawke and Fenris sat down to breathe "So would you call that a tie?"

Hawke shook her head "No, he beat me, as usual. I was dead by the sixth strike. He was just being nice and letting me even things up. He's ever mindful of my pride." Hawke smirked at Fenris and he smiled back.

Still panting a bit, Fenris added "Fourth strike, Hawke. I'm not so mindful of your pride that I'll let you lie like that. You'd have bled out by the fourth strike."

Hawke scoffed at that "Please! You wouldn't have even gotten in a fourth strike if this was a real fight. I got your leg tendons on my second pass. You'd have been rolling around on the ground screaming for the Maker to take you."

"I don't think you even hit me on that pass"

"Oh now look who's lying!"

Breath recovered, Hawke stood, took a swig from a water skein hanging from the banister and motioned at Alistair "Alright, Kingy, let's see how fast you can kill me."

Their match was much more subdued than the one that had just passed. Both Alistair and Hawke circled each other a bit, trying to determine where and how to strike out. While Hawke's primary weakness was the way she left herself open in mid-leap or tumble, those moments were far too small to capitalize on. It would likely take creating a circumstance where she was put off guard in order to get in any substantial hit. While Alistair considered this, Hawke spoke up "Is this how you usually spar, or are we dancing?"

Alistair didn't answer her, just kept circling slowly to his right while she countered the movement. He was hoping to make her strike out first by annoying her into motion but she seemed willing to wait him out. It occurred to him that she hadn't really seen him fight and didn't have the advantage of watching him spar beforehand. So she had only a vague sense of how he might behave in this match. She knew about his Templar background, though. So he'd go for something she wouldn't expect.

Alistair started like he was going to slam right into her, common Templar tactic – run, slam them with the shield, run them through. Extremely standard fare. He could see her shoulder drop just slightly as she moved to evade and instead of following through, he spun into her movement, catching her off guard and sweeping her legs with one of his. She rebounded quickly, rolling to her back and pushing off and up, catching him with a hard kick to the thigh along the way, effectively ruining his opportunity for follow through. Once that first pass was made, the gloves came off and the match began in earnest.

He failed to hit her at all with anything more substantial than a glancing blow and certainly nothing that could be counted as a hit. She, in turn, couldn't get under his defenses. All the things she would normally count on a plate wearing opponent to do, he didn't do. Instead of finding this frustrating, however, she was just more determined to find a weak spot. He covered his flank too well, he was too fast – no one that big should be that fast. And when she fell back to her last resort, outlasting him, that didn't seem to work either. The man just never got tired. How did this huge knight in thick armor never exhaust himself? The match went on seemingly forever. They were at a complete impasse but neither were willing to concede defeat.

Finally, Fenris spoke up "I'm calling a draw. Even Noodle is bored."

Hawke nodded at Alistair and he nodded back, both of them immediately leaning over to breathe. When they'd caught their breath, the spoke at the same time "You went easy on me…" and then immediately began laughing.

"Maker, Alistair! I knew you would have learned a few tricks during the blight but I never expected that. I'm completely impressed. And I'm sure I'm more out of breath than you. You're a beast!"

Alistair laughed at that. He'd never been called a "beast" before. "I spent a year fighting with an Orlesian bard and an Antivan Crow. You learn a few things. But you – I think you're faster than either of them. Zevran would deny it of course, but he'd be wrong."

Only Fenris had anything outside of praise for them. "Hawke, you're still over-extending with your left arm when you stab to the side. And Alistair, you did well against Hawke, but you keep too much of your shoulder outside of your shield. It makes that arm a target."

Hawke and Alistair looked at each other and laughed again.

Noodle joined them in the main room and settled directly in the middle of the triangle they formed as Hawke and Alistair both sat down on the floor to rest, passing the skein back and forth between them. The three of them continued to talk for a while and eventually Fenris fetched a bottle of wine, which they passed between them instead of the water. The conversation meandered through recent events, Alistair's history, and even a little bit of Fenris's history, which surprised Hawke. He was typically not one to share those things, especially with someone he'd only just met.

While they talked, Alistair and Fenris discussing what Seheron was like, Alistair expressing an eagerness to learn more about the Imperium, she let herself just watch the two of them. She realized that he was at Ostegar at the same time she was. That he was up in that tower when the signal went up while she'd been below on the field with Carver. He was also in Lothering just a day before they reached the town themselves. He was making his way north along the Imperial Highway while Hawke and her family fled south, travelling nearly the same road at the same time, just in different directions. In such a short time she'd come to consider him a friend. As much a part of her personal universe as any of her companions in Kirkwall. And if she was honest with herself, she wasn't sure she would be out of her room yet if not for his intervention.

It had been a spur of the moment thing to hug him yesterday, but it was nice. Very nice, if she were honest. Nice enough that it had been hard to back away and get on with her day. He was a strange man. Undeniably charming and witty, but with depths of compassion that the witty rarely laid claim to. He was obviously extremely handsome, but he seemed unaware of his own charms in that regard and that made him seem endearingly boyish. While it was easy to picture him leading, ruling a country, being a fair and just king to his people, it was also a little sad. His life was mapped out for him in many ways, bound in duty and purpose in a way that few ever experience. It was a life that could easily stamp out that light that was in him. The idea of him being changed in that way was heartbreaking.

Here was this storybook king sitting on the floor in an abandoned mansion drinking wine from the bottle and laughing with a refugee and a runaway slave. And this same king could just as easily be holding court in polished armor, stern but fair and beloved by his people who wanted nothing more than a king to be proud of. He was a study in contradictions but he wore them well.

When the bottle was finished, Fenris unceremoniously kicked them out of his house, saying he had things to do, but Hawke was sure it was just the weight of being around too many people for too long a time that day. She didn't mind. She, Alistair, and Noodle made the short walk back to her estate, where Alistair's men and Teagan had already cleared out most of the contents of the main room, the extra furniture and most of the crates having been moved back to the wagons and packed for their return trip. Alistair wanted to wash up and Hawke let him go, heading into the library to pour herself a night cap. She found herself standing in the main sitting room, staring up through the window she'd watched her mother stare out of so often. It had only been two weeks, but it felt like ages since she'd seen her. It felt like she'd just watched her mother die in her arms moments ago. Despite the fact that Hawke had never had friends, not real friends, before coming to Kirkwall she realized that she didn't know how to be alone. She'd bought this house for her mother. She was in Kirkwall only because her mother had wanted it. But now, it was a tomb. An empty place that she held no love for. There were no fond memories here in this house for her to hold on to and the thought of being here alone until she could leave Kirkwall with a clear conscious was more frightening than anything Hawke had experienced in her life. It was a sheer, black wall of terror, threatening to consume her if she let herself face it too long.

She wondered if she could get Fenris to move in. She wondered if Isabela would live here with her. She hastily made mental plans to stave off the loneliness she felt would take her, making and discarding each over and over as she sipped her drink and stared into the fire, lost in thought. It wasn't until Alistairs hand rested on her shoulder, making her jump and slosh her drink, that she realized he'd been standing there. It wasn't until he brushed away the tears on her face that she realized she'd been crying. She stood there, trying to regain her composure and failing miserably. She leaned her forehead against Alistair's chest, his hands resting on her shoulders.

"It's okay, Marian. It's okay now and it will be okay in the future. I'm not trying to convince you. I'm just reminding you of what you already know. It hurts and it's not fair, it's not pleasant. But it hurts because you loved them and they loved you. But that empty spot you feel now will begin to get smaller and smaller. It will require less of your attention and at some point, it will start to feel like peace.

Hawke nodded her head, unable to put words together just then. Alistair moved his hands up and down her arms "Come on, you should get cleaned up."

Hawke laughed suddenly, startling Alistair. "What is it with you and getting me into bathtubs?"

Alistair laughed but didn't reply, just happy to be there to watch her smile.

….

And the next day, Alistair was gone, having been unable to delay his return to Denerim any longer due to a sudden issue in the Bannorn according to Eamon's strenuously worded letter. The in-fighting that was always an issue there had reached a strident pitch due to the damage taken in the southern reaches. Some of the other Banns were moving against the newly weakened territories in an attempt at a land grab. Blighted though the land may be, they were hoping for recovery and wealth in the years to come. Some of the hardest hit areas were also some of Alistair's strongest supporters and he had no choice but to intervene and quickly.

Before leaving he extracted promises from the whole lot of them. He had Hawke's promise that she would write. He had Varric's that he would find out what was behind the recent contracts the Carta were pursuing on Hawke. He had Fenris promise that he would continue to shadow Hawke as much as possible, keeping her safe even when she didn't do it herself. A promise from Sebastian that he would keep Alistair informed of his plans. And finally, a promise from Aveline to watch Anders. He just had a bad feeling about the man – one Aveline obvious shared from the look she gave Alistair.

Hawke once again saw him off at the gates along with both Varric and Fenris this time. She smiled at him as he left, a wide, radiant smile that felt like its own promise.

**...**

****Note:

I'm not super thrilled with this chapter and I'm unsure why. I had to mash it together from several different pieces that were already written but originally arranged differently and I feel like the tone is all over the place. BUT - I've been staring at it for 4 days and that's my limit on patience for trying to fix it at the moment. There will be another update that I feel better about in the next day or two.

And - Snicker Weasel.


	13. Chapter 13

By the time Alistair, Teagan, and the rest of their guards had crossed the Waking Sea and reached the edges of Highever, Alistair was already feeling the tension that had disappeared during his time in Kirkwall creeping back into his shoulders. Their short stop in Amaranthine, which hadn't afforded them the time to visit Vigil's Keep, had netted them a veritable barrage of reports from Eamon that had been waiting to gain the next ship if the king's colors hadn't made it by nightfall. They stopped just long enough to set up a table in a field where the men could rest and he could work through them on and send out his own messages to various interest in the Bannorn to assure them that he was aware of the situation on his way to intercede on their behalf.

Hawke's first letter to him was short, and had reached him just as he was making his way beyond the borders of the Wending Wood outside Amaranthine.

_Alistair - _

_The cheese merchant has a brother who has a cheese shop in Dragon's Peak. Cheese is a family business apparently. The brother, Mallachy Curren, will extend you a steep discount if you purchase in bulk. Just have your buyer mention my name. _

_I'm trying to fatten you up so you'll be beatable in a sparring match._

_Hawke_

Varric's runners were just as fast, accurate, and well informed in Ferelden as they had been in the Free Marches. Before he reached the affected areas he already knew which Bann was pushing the hardest and what he really wanted beyond the wider lands and power that most of them sought. Once reaching the Bannorn, Alistair was able to broker a marriage plan for the offspring of the banns of West Hill and White River, effectively ending the hostility. It took a surprisingly short amount of time given his previous interactions with the leaders in the area. Though he'd still had to play his cards close to his chest and not reveal too much about what he really knew, he found that being well informed had not only squashed the most immediate concerns, but gave most of the Banns who had been squabbling something to think about. He wasn't a pushover, and he knew things about them and their needs that Cailan had never seemed to know. While it wouldn't win over all their loyalties, simply feeling as if they were understood went a long way for these men. Alistair knew it was only a temporary peace. The Bannorn was a place of high ambitions and the ambitious were always scratching at each other.

They headed north again, passing through some of the still-blighted areas which he hadn't been able to visit for the last several months, following close by the Drakon. A night stayed over closer to the Brecilian Forest than most of his guard was comfortable with, allowed him to send out a message to Lanaya about the issues in the Free Marches and Marathari's clan. He knew that getting Halla across an ocean was not exactly common – and that they likely wouldn't enjoy having his big human head meddling in their affairs – but he also knew that Dalish anywhere were considered Dalish and that they would assist if they could.

He had the dubious pleasure of stopping in Dragon's Peak himself, deciding to pass straight through instead of skirting the area as he normally would. Dragon's Peak was one of those large villages that should have been prosperous and could have been welcoming but somehow was neither. It made Lothering look downright cosmopolitan by comparison. It had always baffled him that a place in such close proximity to Denerim and the major trade routes north could remain so utterly devoid of character. Seeing Hawke mention it in her letter made him realize that he hadn't truly been there since just after the blight when it had been leveled thanks to the darkspawn's march on Denerim.

The primary village itself had bounced back quite well. And while it couldn't be said that it was faring well (since it never truly had) it was at least as destitute as it always was traditionally. While he couldn't say that anyone there seemed… happy… they obviously didn't feel enough discontent to leave. The same annoyed, pudgy mayor who was there during the blight greeted them and begrudgingly went through all the motions of welcoming him, looking relieved when Alistair assured the man that they were just passing through.

The place gave him the creeps, frankly.

Late that evening, they arrived in Denerim, at an hour when the market was closed so they thankfully encountered little traffic or had to endure little fanfare on their return. Eamon, of course, pounced upon him immediately and insisted they discuss the situation in the Bannorn. He was pleased with the results that Alistair had come up with and mercifully let him retire when Alistair pled the need for a bath and to catch up on his correspondence.

After soaking until he was wrinkled and the water was going tepid, he had his steward bring his paperwork to him so he could read through in his own bed. Most of the issues were basic housekeeping or updates on how the land was (or more importantly, was not) recovering from the blight. Finally, getting through those he found a note from Varric telling him that the contract had been taken out by a poor nobody who had been paid to put it in their name. It seemed the real culprit was somehow connected to Mother Petrice as Hawke and Fenris had suspected. That was not a good sign. He also included a few drawings, obviously something he'd sketched out while he and the rest of Hawke's group were gathered in the Hanged Man at some point. The first was a group setting, with Fenris, Hawke, and Isabela playing cards. Varric managed to somehow make it look very dwarven and stylized in the general setting, with rough blocks for the chairs and the background of the bar behind the trio, but their faces, their armor, and the amount of detail in their expressions was astonishing. Isabela looked buxom and cheeky, Fenris looked his usual impassive and almost dour self. And Hawke – her expression was that unreadable state she often had where she wasn't actually smiling, but by the curve of her lip you could see she was just on the edge of it. Almost as if she was secretly amused by what was going on as she glanced toward Fenris, like she was about to speak, make some quip.

He'd had no idea Varric was an artist as well as a writer. Or why he'd even included the sketch. The second sketch, however, was even more startling.

It was him. Him and Hawke sitting at the Hanged Man that morning when Hawke had made him taste the ale. She leaned toward him over the table, arms crossed in front of her with a grin on her face. Her hair was loose and the soft waves were tucked behind her ear. Alistair had his hand on a mug of ale and had a nearly identical grin, leaning in toward her as well. He hadn't even noticed Varric paying any attention to them at the time and the dwarf certainly hadn't been doodling in a book while he'd been there. Had he really just committed this to memory? It was… extraordinary.

And there at the bottom of the sheet was a title in quotes. "The King and The Hawke" with another note scrawled next to it in less formal lettering _"Think it'll be a best-seller, kingy?"_

As much as he wanted to simply laugh, he was also touched. Several times while travelling he'd found himself wishing she were there so he could say something funny that had occurred to him or just to talk when it was far too quiet in whatever room he'd been put up in. It had only been a little over a week since he'd last seen her and he missed her quite a lot already. He'd have to thank Varric for giving him some token of her, even if she wasn't aware of it.

There was also a letter from Hawke, this one longer than her last had been.

…..

Alistair –

Everyone has finally stopped hovering and holding their breath around me like I might break if they move through the room too quickly. Well, except Fenris, but I'm used to his brand of hovering. His reading gets better by the day and his handwriting has come under control. Soon he's going to have a better written vocabulary than I do and I've been told I "talk fancy" by more than one Kirkwall dock worker. It's quite the ringing endorsement of my father's teaching skills, I think.

My house is empty. Very very empty. Even Sandal having barking conversations with Noodle can't fill all the space that's left. I haven't forced myself into Mother's room yet, but I feel like I should, just to prove to myself that she's not there at her desk or on her settee reading. I've been insisting everyone come over here to drink instead of at the Hanged Man just to have something going on. It's an open bar at Hawke's though, so no one is complaining yet.

And now that I've forced myself through those two paragraphs, on to the bad news. The terrible news. I'm torn between telling you this like I know Varric would want me to and simply having it out. If you want flowery prose, you'll have to get the story from him. I don't think I've the energy for it.

Seamus had a tendency to simply disappear, following Ashaad around the cost. Ashaad is a scout – I have no idea what the rank actually translates to, but they've always seemed like scouts to me. Well, The Viscount was sure this time that Seamus had gone further this time and actually attempted to convert, become viddithari, and he asked me to appeal to the Arishok in person, to ask him to release Seamus from whatever vows or oaths he had taken.

I tried to tell him that if he'd truly converted there would be no "getting him back". That the Qun did not work that way. Dumar insisted that I try. I'm unsure why, but I don't really fear the Arishok, no matter how much Fenris begs me to take him seriously as a threat.

The Arishok has been gaining converts hand over fist in this city. Mostly elves at first, but plenty of humans – many of them the children of the nobility.

So, I went to the Arishok. He reacted as I had expected, dismissal, amusement, resolve. But then he asked why I had come there on behalf of the Viscount when the Viscount had already sent a letter. That was wrong. The Viscount sent me personally; he wouldn't have sent a letter. Seamus had been summoned to the Chantry. And I knew immediately that it was Petrice. And the Arishok knew from my silence. He warned me that, should harm come to a Viddethari, the Qunari would exact retribution. They protect those of the Qun. I had no idea what would constitute a high enough price in this case.

Fenris and I found Seamus kneeling at the altar in the Chantry. But he didn't move when I approached. And when I kneeled down beside him and put my hand on his shoulder he slumped over, dead, posed as a penitent. They murdered him to prove a point, to make an example of him. Poor sweet, guileless Seamus, who was never a threat to anyone but himself. No one deserves that kind of death, but least of all him.

Petrice, lurking in the shadows the whole time came forward and insinuated that I had killed him, making it clear that that was the story she would spin to the Grand Cleric once her band of true believers had killed me.

They were just peasants, beggars, people from Darktown. Their poor weapons and armor would have been bad enough, but half of them lacked the strength to even properly attack. Fenris and I tried to simply disarm or incapacitate as many of them as possible, but some of them seemed to seek out death, practically throwing themselves against my daggers. As if it was some test of devotion. Some of them died.

The Grand Cleric arrived with Petrice behind her, crowing about our crimes. Sebastian, Maker bless him, had heard the noise and come down from the dormitories as well to see what had happened. While the Grand Cleric is level headed I'm sure having him there at my side was a further benefit. Elthina, thankfully, listened to what I had to say. I explained what had happened. I've never lied or mislead Elthina. But she didn't have to believe me. As soon as I began to explain, Petrice fell all over herself more or less confessing, claiming that they couldn't let anyone leave the Chantry and that it was their duty to make an example of those who did.

Elthina wanted to hand Petrice over to face trial and had begun to leave, expecting that that would be the end of it. But before she could leave and before Petrice could stop protesting, a Sten came out of the shadows and put an arrow into Petrice's chest and then one into her head.

The Qun protect their own. The Sten had all the proof he needed to decide she'd killed Seamus.

I had to go and rouse the Viscount, pull him from sleep. He looked so elated and relieved when he saw me, assuming I had his son with me. And then I had to tell him his only child was dead. I had to lead that man into the Chantry and show him his dead son, lying in the shadow of a statue of Andraste, murdered for making a choice that someone else didn't like.

He's refusing to do anything, Alistair. He's lost his son and as far as he's concerned that's as bad as it can get. He just told me to leave. I am sure now more than ever that Kirkwall is going to have to face the Qunari. I don't know if I should see the Arishok or not. I don't know if I should try to talk to the Viscount more and convince him. I don't know if I should involve that harridan Meredith to bolster the city's protection. I have no idea what to do. I feel like I'm in the middle of this and I'm stuck watching, helpless. The Arishok is not a man to be cajoled. He is a force of nature and I won't be able to fix this.

The whole city knows about Seamus but none know of the Chantry's involvement. The way they lie by omission as easily as they breathe is stunning. Elthina now knows exactly what they've done – Sebastian and I had a very frank discussion with her about all of the plots that Petrice had been involved in. But still – she covers this up.

There will be comeuppance for this. It will be the first attack by the Qunari south of Tevinter in ages. When they get started, they may not stop. It isn't their way. If you haven't already bolstered your armies because of Orlais, you should begin bolstering them for this. You cannot be too prepared for this force, Alistair, I cannot stress it enough.

Hawke

…

Alistair sighed heavily, reading through the letter once again. He knew the Qunari and the Arishok by reputation only and from what he'd been able to glean from Sten during the blight. They were not a people who would understand that the Chantry did not speak for them all. They would expect that an entity with such power would be entitled to act on behalf of the people as a whole. Even if they did understand that the Chantry was just one voice of many, and a voice that often ran at opposition to the will of the common people, they would only see that as a weakness.

Alistair rose and had a courier summon Eamon to his study. As he made his way there himself, he thought over exactly what he hoped to achieve here. Maybe he just wanted to feel like he was doing something. While his time in Kirkwall would be seen as frivolous to Eamon, he knew he'd actually gotten more done there than he'd expected, despite the rather tepid support from the Viscount when it came to trade agreements.

While Alistair didn't feel that the Qunari would be a direct threat to Ferelden if they could be stopped in Kirkwall, the prospect of them launching a fight there would have deep ramifications. As Hawke had said, they'd never waged war that far south. Many people in Ferelden didn't even think Qunari were real, with the last of the Qunari wars occurring far away and having little direct impact on the southern reaches of Thedas.

And mixed up in the middle of the political and martial ramifications was Hawke. He couldn't focus on that while he talked to Eamon, but it was a strong factor for Alistair. The idea of Hawke, so bereft, barely hanging on to whatever normalcy and comfort she could muster in the midst of that chaos was terrifying to him. He tried and failed to push out the thoughts of her, facing down waves of Qunari running rampant through the city. Would she have support? Would the city rise with her? Would she be alone in the fighting? He pictured her, grim faced and bloodied, taking on attackers 3 times her weight, looming over her, impossibly small in comparison. He paced as he thought, almost thankful for the interruption to his spiraling worry when Eamon stepped into the room.

"Thank you for coming so quickly, Eamon. I need to speak with you."

"I hadn't expected you to jump back into work so quickly, Alistair. You said you needed to rest."

"I did, I do, but something has happened and I need for you to set up some meetings for me."

Eamon nodded. He recognized this tone from Alistair and knew it was best to wait him out for answers. Eamon took a seat across from the King's desk, though Alistair only continued to pace, obviously agitated.

Eamon only knew what little Teagan had written to him about the King's trip through the Free Marches. The details about each of the city-states had been complete, utterly detailed in every interaction, alliance, outstanding issue, and concern. They'd made great strides there and Eamon felt sure that, with the farming regions in the Free Marches as support, they may soon be able to ensure that Ferelden did not starve through the winter. The poor harvest in the few regions where the land had not been blighted beyond use had nearly everyone on edge, the country's stores of grain only lasting through the previous winter. There would be issues with Orlais, but Eamon would wait for Celene to broach the topic, sure that if they intervened too quickly, appeared too eager to stave off her annoyance at having suddenly become less of an exclusive ally as far as grain shipments went that it would give her far too much power.

The details about Alistair's time in Kirkwall specifically were far less complete. He knew that Teagan had been holding something back from him and that, more than anything, chafed at him. He felt sure that he would not like whatever it is he heard about that visit and what Alistair's insistence that it needed to happen truly meant. While Alistair no longer needed his intervention in most affairs of state, the idea that the king would deliberately keep anything from him was a troubling one. He hadn't been a particularly loving father figure – he knew he'd failed Alistair completely on that front – but he'd tried to be a fair, understanding, and most of all, supportive advisor. He could not do that if Alistair was holding information back.

"I will attempt to explain some things first and then I'd like to get some plans of action in place."

Eamon nodded "Of course, Alistair, I'm eager to hear more about your time in Kirkwall and what we may expect from Viscount Dumar."

"I think we can expect very little from Dumar. That was my opinion before and that's only been confirmed by the most recent information I've received."

Eamon looked surprised "He invited us to the city and seemed quite eager to form a stronger alliance with Ferelden when I spoke to him. Did something happen to change that? Teagan's letter sounded promising. Dumar was willing to put more resources into the fertile lands around Kirkwall to our mutual benefit. A show of good faith toward Ferelden, work for displaced farmers, less reliance on tariffs and shipping fees for their own coffers – it all sounded like a brilliant plan."

"I'm still trying to straighten out how to tell you about all of this, Eamon, so bear with me."

Alistair paced a few times and then finally sat, steepling his fingers, elbows on his desk.

"That first trip to Kirkwall was indeed promising. Dumar struck me as a man who makes no change until he is pushed to it. He is maintaining, not leading, and apparently has been doing nothing but maintaining for many years. The state of the city makes that clear. Hightown flourishes and the rest has been left to fall apart. Only the new guard captain has been able to make any real strides in that regard, increasing the safety of the city by leaps and bounds over her predecessor."

"While on my first trip we heard things about notable people in the city, but none more so than Marian Hawke." Alistair paused. He hated even bringing up her name in front of Eamon, sure that it would lead to no good and he'd find himself in an argument. "She'd been of great service to both the Viscount personally and in matters of politics. She had become something of a diplomat on his behalf with the Qunari and in fact the Arishok would speak directly to no one but her, using representatives even when dealing with the Viscount. She had assisted Templars in their duties as well as the Captain of the Guard. In addition to that, she was a Ferelden refugee. She fled from Lothering with her family and had managed over the course of three years to go from living in squalor to buying back her family's estate in High Town and restoring her family's titles."

"Her family's titles?"

"Yes, her mother was Leandra Amell, her cousin was Solona."

And there is was, the thing he'd been dreading. Interest- that gleam in Eamon's eye that saw political advantage and prepared to seize it. There was no going back now, so he pushed on.

"Anyway, that's not important. The point is that Teagan thought it would be good to talk to Hawke. She was well liked by the refugees in the city, becoming something of a minor celebrity among them. The Viscount also clearly favored her. So we met and talked and she was everything that had been promised and more. The network of connections she was able to provide proved invaluable through the rest of our visit in the Free Marches as well as for the issues in the Bannorn. I'd love to take credit for it, but I can't – I simply had good information."

Eamon laughed "Why didn't you tell me this sooner, Alistair? This is a good thing."

Alistair groaned "It doesn't really stay "good", Eamon. I … here..." Alistair picked up Hawke's letter and, holding back the more personal first sheet, passed it over to Eamon "I received this today."

Eamon read over the letter, his face stern and growing darker as he read. When he'd finished he looked up at Alistair "Can this really be accurate? Are you sure you can trust this information?"

"Yes, without question. She wouldn't lie to me."

Eamon gave him a look and Alistair immediately kicked himself for his choice of words. But Eamon continued "And what are you suggesting we do about this?"

Alistair sighed "Unfortunately I don't think there's much we can do at the moment. But I would like to talk to the Grand Cleric here and let her know what's happening with the Chantry in Kirkwall. Perhaps there is some influence she can bring to bear there to keep them from continuing to so thoroughly ruin their credibility. Given the way rumor flows within the Chantry I'm sure she's aware of at least some of it at this point, but seeing it from an outside perspective may help."

"Alistair, involvement in Chantry politics is never wise. Are you sure you want to do this?"

"I'm not getting involved in it, Eamon. I'm keeping good relations with the Chantry here in Denerim by informing them of any unrest that may be connected to the Chantry. It's a conversation, not an accusation."

Eamon mulled this over and nodded "Very well. I'll set it up immediately. But tell me, Alistair, why did you return to Kirkwall at all? Teagan told me very little about your purpose there."

"I don't suppose I could get away with saying it was a personal matter?" Eamon just stared at him "Right, didn't think so. It was worth a shot." Alistair sighed. "Well, I began writing back and forth with Hawke after our meeting. She's honest and I value her opinions. She was of great help to me and to the Fereldens in Kirkwall. Her friend wrote to tell me that her mother had been killed and it was… a terrible death, Eamon. Hawke had taken to her room and hadn't left in a week. I wasn't far away and so I returned and helped her. It felt like the least I could do given what she'd already been able to provide for me and the Fereldens who are still there as refugees." Alistair felt that all of that was close enough to the truth that it would be enough. But he was wrong.

"It that why the tone in this letter is so… familiar?"

"What? What are you implying Eamon?"

"She seems awfully… comfortable with you, Alistair. You can't just jump into a relationship with someone, no matter what her pedigree may be. You're a king. From this letter it almost sounds as if she's expecting you to play hero for her, to come to her rescue. You know very well you can't get involved in this woman's life – no without doing it properly and having a fully sanctioned relationship. While kings take mistresses all the time, it is typically done after they're married and once their duties to produce an heir have been fulfilled."

Alistair was suddenly angry and did a poor job of hiding it. The idea that Hawke of all people would be begging him for a rescue was insulting. "She is not my mistress, Eamon. I didn't realize being king made me incapable of making friends. Hawke has provided more council, trust, and loyalty in the short time I've known her than any of the staff in the palace, you included. You made your opinion on Lelianna and Zevran clear enough, practically running them out of Denerim before their wounds had even healed and they helped end a blight. I didn't have the confidence to overrule you then, but I assure you that that is no longer the case. You will not scare me away from someone I trust and you will not demean her to my face, no matter how many good reasons you think you have for doing so." Alistair paused for a breath. "Set up the meeting with the Grand Cleric. I have some work to tend to. Goodnight, Eamon."

Eamon rose from his chair, "My boy, I didn't mean…"

"I said goodnight, Eamon."

Eamon sighed and left the room. He knew there would be no opportunity to correct whatever mistake he'd made. After all these years he still didn't feel like he had a good grasp of Alistair's motivations. Just as soon as he felt he'd figured it out, they would change. He'd been easy enough to understand during the blight. Making him king had seemed daunting but in retrospect it was downright simple as compared to the man he had become. Eamon was slowly realizing that his time of control over the king was coming to an end and the only hope he had of retaining Alistair's ear would be to let go of him and allow him to make his own decisions without interference.

But Eamon was still Eamon, and as he made his way to his own study to craft a request for the Grand Cleric's presence, he resolved to find out everything he could about Marian Hawke.

**...**

**Notes and stuff: **

This weekend I managed to edit through Chapter 19. So I'll post those up probably every couple of days. It's nice to have a buffer again. In talking through some of the story points I've changed in this editing process with my husband (points I changed thanks to a speculative review, in fact), he let loose this vaguely maniacal laugh at told me that the people who read this are going to be so annoyed at me - but in a good way. I hope he's right ;)


	14. Chapter 14

Hawke stomped in through the door of her estate, slamming the door behind her hard enough that several pieces of glassware in the sitting room rattled on their shelves. Everyone had gotten right up her nose that day. Everyone. Even Fenris had managed to treat her like she was an idiot. Her armor was half destroyed, her chest piece dangling lamely from one set of buckles, she'd lost a dagger, there was some kind of rock or something in her boot, and she hadn't been sleeping well so she was exhausted.

Varric had been too wrapped up in something that morning to even speak to her, which she knew she shouldn't take personally, but she did anyway. Anders – confounding, frustrating, utterly ridiculous Anders – had managed to somehow turn her gift of crates of supplies for his clinic into an excuse to tell her all about mages and how they suffer. When she had protested hearing this speech yet again, he'd fallen all over her with accusations about how she was a hypocrite and didn't really care and probably never did. That turned into a screaming match that only ended when Anders admitted that, yes, maybe having lived her entire life on the run for having just been RELATED to apostates may have, potentially, entitled her to some kind of opinion on the topic. Accidentally stumbling across a group of guardsmen pinned down by raiders was only her last stroke of bad luck that day, but it was certainly the worst. They'd managed to get them out of there and take out the smug bastards who had been attacking them, but the never ending waves of complaints she had to endure from Isabela and Fenris for even getting involved in the first place made any potential satisfaction in the outcome vanish.

She'd spent the last 6 days since Seamus's death working almost non-stop. Anything, any job, anything to continue moving. Any distraction would do. Seamus's death could easily feel like another personal failure if she allowed herself to think of it that way. And it was very difficult not to if the dreams she'd been having were any indication. Everytime she managed to force herself to bed she invariably dreamt of him, the way he slumped over at her touch, his cold blank eyes in his too youthful face.

Beyond the sense of duty she felt to keeping the issues with the Qunari in check, she also simply grieved for him. He'd been kind to her and had been one of the rare few in Kirkwall who she felt had truly accepted her in some sense. She'd done everything she could think of to keep herself occupied in the face of that grief outside of repainting the estate or checking all the trees in Sundermount for wayward kittens that needed rescuing.

Roughly ripping off her stupidly flopping chest piece and hurling it to the floor, Hawke stopped at the desk in the front parlor to check through correspondence. There was just one letter and it was from Alistair. Hawke was almost afraid to open it, assuming that if she opened it today it would also be something awful and annoying. That maybe, if she just held off and read it tomorrow or the next day it would be transformed into something that wouldn't want to make her tear her hair out in frustration.

Despite how sure she was that she was going to regret it later, she took the letter with her up to her room. After peeling off her clothes, forcing herself to relax enough to take a bath, and pouring herself a small measure of brandy, she curled up in bed and popped the wax seal on Alistair's letter – eager to see his handwriting and read through his words so she could hear his voice in her head. It wasn't nearly the same as being able to watch him smile and laugh with her own eyes, but she hoped it would be enough to wash away this awful day.

…..

Hawke –

First, I have to say that I am shocked at the behavior of the Chantry and am incredibly sorry to hear about Seamus. I felt like he was a bit foolish when I'd met him, but he was a good man, a kind man. He absolutely did not deserve that kind of fate. He was so young… it seems like a lot of wasted potential. And, I know this is awful to say, I'm somewhat glad that the Qunari took care of Petrice. From what you've told me she was a nasty piece of work and I don't think there is any hope at all of Kirkwall producing a fair and truthful trial for a member of the Chantry at this point.

I had a meeting with the Grand Cleric here in Denerim who was not aware at all of anything going on in Kirkwall (or so she claimed, I can never tell with that woman) and said that she would report to the Divine in Orlais about the issues and get into contact with Elthina directly to better understand what is happening. I don't really trust anything anyone from the Chantry has to say – call me bitter – but, well, I've done what I can on that front.

I've also managed to drag Wynne away from whatever she does in the palace day to day and ask her some questions. She had nothing meaningful to tell me about Anders beyond the fact that he constantly chafed against the circle, he'd always been a talented spirit healer, and that he escaped repeatedly. I know you didn't ask me to look into this but the truth is, I was somewhat put off by Anders's demeanor, especially when it came to talking to you. He seemed overly aggressive and possibly on edge. I won't tell you who you should or shouldn't be around even if it were remotely appropriate to do so. But I will ask that you remain wary of him. I know you've heard plenty of that from Fenris already, but I will still add my voice to it, especially since my voice is that of a mage-friendly person who was once trained as a Templar. If I thought it meant anything at all to you I'd make it a decree or something instead of a request but well, I know that you'd likely just ignore it anyway.

For at least a year I've been trying to track down Lelianna. I believe I told you about her or you may just know about her anyway. She was with us during the blight, a former Orlesian Bard. She had devoted herself to being a protector of Andraste's Ashes, but I haven't received any responses from her in a very long time. I decided to try again with Varric's contacts since they've been so useful so far but she literally could be anywhere in Thedas so I'm trying to force myself to be patient.

Beyond her connection to the Chantry, Lelianna was also someone I could talk to and I feel like I'm nearly bereft of people who fit that definition lately. I think meeting you has reminded me that I used to have … friends. Granted, they were friends because we were put into harm's way together with little other choice, but I think you might understand yourself how those kinds of friendships can sometimes mean more. And it's not as if I can go out and join a club to meet people of a like mind. There aren't many clubs for bastard kings who enjoy cheese and a good game of "evade the question".

Speaking of cheese, actually, Mallachy Curren has started a weekly delivery to the palace kitchens and has even set up some trade agreements with the local pubs and inns to supply them. Now if you can just find someone in Kirkwall with a surplus of grain who would like to set up some sort of discount I think you might be able to wipe out all of Ferelden's problems in the course of a year. And if you manage to do that I'll have to come up with a title for you or something and woo you back to your native lands.

You know, I've been curious about this for a while and I know I asked this when I first met you but, would you ever consider returning to Ferelden? I think that the country would be better off with a force like you within its borders again. I will admit that I also ask for entirely selfish reasons.

So, while you're there in Kirkwall I've taken the liberty of having a bit of Ferelden brought to you. It should be set up somewhere in the house, Bodahn said he would take care of it. I hope that he didn't put it somewhere too obvious, though, because I like to imagine the suspicious look on your face while reading this and then eventually you rising and stalking through the house for whatever it might be. If I were there I'd bar you from looking and force you to ask questions until you could guess what it was. But this will just have to do.

Just as you regaled me with anecdotes about Kirkwall while I travelled the Free Marches, I will attempt over the next week or so to do the same for the court at Denerim. I don't think we have anything on par with an "Idunna" for me to share with you, but I'm sure I'll think of something.

I hope you're getting some sleep and eating and all those other very boring things that I still feel compelled to say. And I hope you like the gift. If you don't, I might have to seriously question our friendship. No pressure.

Yours in Cheese

Alistair

…..

Hawke was grinning, the whole day forgotten. A gift? Here in the house? Alistair had sent her something as a gift and it needed to be set up somewhere. She had no idea what it could be but didn't immediately go walking through the house seeking it out. Instead she reread parts of the letter. Specifically "I will admit that I also ask for entirely selfish reasons." What reasons could those be?

Eventually, he made herself stop speculating on that particular point and get up to check out what could have possibly been delivered here that she'd missed. She got through the top floor with no hint and then started on the first floor. Finally, in the raised room above the library she found it. A HUGE cask of Ale on a stand, stamped with the name of the brewery in Ferelden. It had already been tapped with a spigot so she scrambled out of there and into the scullery to find a mug, giggling and running through the house like a fool, but she just didn't care. She poured a small measure of ale for herself and closed her eyes to smell. It was actual ale. It reminded her of moorlands and trees and the still chilly spring in Ferelden. It was like having a cup of everything good about the place she'd been born that she could hold right there in here hand. Tears sprang to her eyes even as she scolded herself for it. It had just been so long since anyone had given her anything. Thinking back it had been… years. Outside of dresses and shoes that would appear in her wardrobe, she never got gifts from mother. For her name day the year they landed in Kirkwall Bethanny had given her a small cloth, embroidered with her father's crest. Hawke carried it with her everywhere, edges folded carefully to protect the embroidery. Not a day went by when she didn't touch it and see it and it may have been her most prized possession. But that was the last thing she could remember being given that wasn't repayment of debt or a bribe of some kind.

And this…it was extravagant. Not really because it was expensive – which it surely was, but because of the nature of it. She complained about the quality of ale in the country and, being unable to bring her to the good ale, he'd sent it to her. Hawke was stunned. She stood there, running her hand along the side of the cask, sipping the ale, alternately streaming tears and making herself laugh thinking of how she could possibly top this.

Before sleep, Hawke wrote a return letter, setting it aside for the runners to grab in the morning. And sleep that night was good.

…

Alistair had been dashing off notes to Hawke on a daily basis all week, as he had promised. He wasn't sure she'd appreciate his flavor of anecdotes, but they amused him so he decided that at least one of them would surely get some enjoyment out of the exercise. He was also using it as a distraction from thinking too much about how she might react to an entire cask of ale being delivered to her house without anyone asking her permission. Hopefully she'd at least be happy enough about the quality to put up with the fact that he hadn't asked, but he couldn't be sure. He'd gotten the sense that, while she was generally easy going she had some very definite ideas about personal space, property, and how hers were intruded upon.

There was also the happy side effect that, when he was hunched over his desk scribbling people were far less likely to disturb him. It had been a somewhat peaceful week because of it. Just as he was finishing up his latest note which was all about how much Arl Wulff reminded him of a painting he'd seen once of a walrus, a courier dropped off a letter for him. Even from a distance he had come to immediately recognize Hawke's distinctive hand-drawn crest in the seal.

He asked the courier to wait, finishing his own note, sealing it, and giving the courier instructions on where to drop it for pick up by Varric's messengers. He had stopped using royal messengers for anything except official correspondence since returning to Denerim.

….

_Alistair – _

_You are amazing and I am overwhelmed. Not only is the ale fantastic, but I cannot tell you what it means to know that you did this for me on the back of one silly conversation at the Hanged Man. The only thing that could possibly make this better is if you were here to share it with me. I love my friends and they're great – but I wish you were here among them. _

_I'm sure that's completely inappropriate to say and if this is ever brought up in a way that causes embarrassment I will claim that you were clearly trying to get me drunk so that I would say something foolish - look at the size of the drink you bought me!_

_Yours in Ale_

_Hawke_

…

The note was short, but it made his week. It might have made his month.

Alistair had spent the day enduring the latest round of Eamon's list of available marriage candidates. He still actually thought that Anora might be viable. Whether he was testing Alistair or was truly insane Alistair couldn't tell. Thankfully Teagan had scoffed at that suggest just as strongly as Alistair did so Eamon dropped it.

His latest great project had been Elissa Cousland, Teyrna of Highever. He'd met her at several landsmeets already and quite liked her. And yes, she was charming. She was also intelligent and very pretty. But she made it plain that she had no desire to endanger her family's claim to Highever and if that meant remaining unmarried and naming an heir that is what she would do. She would not take the Theirin name. She was the last of her line and she would not allow their deaths to have been in vain. Alistair had admired her for that decision and had told her he would provide any support he could. And he meant it. They'd actually had a very nice chat about their respective duties and the expectations for them and he had walked away feeling… pleasantly surprised. In fact, Elissa Cousland might just be Alistair's favorite noble because of that conversation.

The problem then became that he made the mistake of mentioning that he'd gotten along with her quite well while Eamon had been nearby. And since that time Eamon had been writing Elissa letters and trying to cajole Alistair into proposing. No matter how many different ways Alistair explained that Elissa Cousland was a Teyrna who had no intention of letting go of her family's land, Eamon found a way around it, claiming she would come around, she would see reason, the Couslands understood duty and sacrifice and so on. Alistair was a little sickened by it, honestly. The idea that it was just her place, expected of her, to give up the last connection to her family so that he could have a child of the right bloodlines – if it weren't so offensive it would be hilarious.

When Eamon conceded finally (for the moment) that Elissa would probably not concede to marriage, he moved on to every other woman available in the kingdom that he could think of as well as several princesses from Rivain and Antiva.

By the time Alistair was able to flee, he had a pounding headache and considered just going to bed though it was just approaching dusk. He didn't even have the wherewithal to keep up the pretense that he was looking through correspondence anymore. He'd begun flipping through every missive on his desk looking for a letter from Hawke and if none was present, only then sitting down and reading through the rest of them. He was impatient for the company of her words, her neat handwriting, her turn of phrase. The way she flourished the ends of her "y"s and "g"s made him smile because it was so out of keeping with all the other letters in their neat columns and rows.

Alistair had begun to realize that noticing minute quirks of penmanship was not strictly normal for him. But then neither was sending a letter every day across a sea on the hope that it would make the recipient smile for a moment, just on the off chance she'd had a bad day. He'd known her for roughly six months at that point, and he felt like he'd known her for so much longer. While somewhere in him he knew what all that added up to, he continued to play dumb with himself. He was good at that and it didn't raise any uncomfortable questions. Dumb was easy.

That particular night the letter from Hawke was terse and more than a little angry. She didn't say it in the text, but she was nervous.

….

Alistair –

Some interesting facts have come to light.

I told you that the Arishok once said that the reason he and his Karasten were still in Kirkwall was because something was lost, someone had stolen something from them. Whatever that something was, it was important enough that the Arishok himself could not return to his homeland without it. It was shameful to him that it had been lost under his command. But he wouldn't tell me what it was.

Well you know that relic that Isabela has been hunting for for 4 years?

… you see where I'm going with this.

She stole the Tome of Koslun from the Qunari. It is apparently a handwritten tome by their most revered philosopher. Koslun WROTE THE QUN, Alistair. This tome to them would be like if Andraste herself kept a diary. And Isabela stole it from them. This completely pompous despicable ass of a man she'd worked for named Castillion wanted it as repayment for the fact that she let a ship of slaves go. But the Qunari dreadnoughts followed her, using Gaatlok (explosive powder) to bombard her ship. To get away, she drove her ship into a storm. The storm effectively destroyed the Qunari dreadnoughts, stranding them in Kirkwall. But the tome itself was lost.

Why do I know all this? Because Isabela came to me tonight to tell me that she knew where it was, for sure this time, and that we needed to go get it. And when I asked her why this was so urgent that it had to happen immediately, she sort of confessed. She hinted at a confession. It wasn't until we got to the warehouse and had to fight a group of Qunari, headed by a Sten no less, that she confessed the rest of it.

I knew Isabela was a thief. I've always known that. I'm okay with that. I'm not okay with her being a stupid thief. Stupid plus thief changes everything. Then there was a choice to be made. And I have no idea if I made the wrong one. She could take the tome to Castillion (and I may be able to point the Qunari at him so they could get it back without involving Isabela), saving her neck. Or I could take the tome directly to the Qunari and leave Isabela to whatever fate Castillion cooked up for her.

Take a guess what the soft-hearted fool chose.

We got into the warehouse, Isabela took off after the smuggler who had the tome (his name was Wall-Eyed Sam. I couldn't make this up if I tried) and left Fenris, Varric and I to deal with a large group of Qunari and a group of Tevinter Magisters who had both come to reclaim the book. It was a long fight of evading the Qunari and focusing on killing the Magisters, which was exhausting, and then having to deal with the Qunari finally.

When we got back out of the warehouse, oozing blood, holding each other up. There lay the stupid smuggler with a note pinned to his chest. This is rich, so I'm just going to copy it:

_Dear Hawke,_

_I have the relic, and am gone. I'm sorry it has to be this way. You've been a loyal ally, but this is best for us both. You promised me the relic, and I know you you'll fight Castillion for me, but I don't want this. I've dragged you too far into this mess already._

_You don't have to forgive me, but I hope you understand._

_Isabela_

She knew I would fight Castillion for her but she still left. She took the thing and ran. She could have run anyway and at least allowed me to return it to the Qunari. But instead, I'm going to have to fight them and maybe even this Castillion man. I've only ever had a modicum of trust for Isabela. And she knew that because, well, she's always known how much trust she's earned. I've known all along exactly who she is and I never expected more from her. But to have it so thoroughly rubbed in my face is insulting.

Tomorrow I have to go with Aveline to the compound. Apparently a few elves have become converts to the Qun immediately after they murdered a guardsman. Aveline can't allow that to stand because it would send the message that others can simply commit crimes and flee into the arms of the Qunari and use them as a shield. She wants the Arishok to hand the elves back over to her so that they can stand trial. I tried to explain to her that a convert has no past in the eyes of the Qun and that the Qunari do not recognize the authority of the city when it comes to Viddathari. But she's insistent.

The only good thing to come out of my day was that I finally beat Fenris in a sparring match. I got in 6 hits before he even hit me once. He was grouchy with me the rest of the day. And I even managed not to gloat about it. Much. I gloated a little.

I will write as soon as I can.

Yours in bloody mindedness

Hawke

…..

Alistair sent out a note for the ports to keep an eye out for Isabela along with a description. Not that the dock workers in Denerim needed a description, she was something of a local legend. He sent another note to the Pearl with the same request along with a promise to Sanga that she'd be paid well and it was just to find Isabela to talk. Truthfully, Alistair was so annoyed that he'd like to find her and stick her in Fort Drakon for a while.

He paced for a while that night, thinking over what could go wrong in that situation, the possible outcomes. None of them seemed hopeful. He finally slept, exhausted from worry.

…

Alistair didn't hear anything from anyone in Kirkwall for two weeks. Eventually a letter arrived from Varric.

….

A –

Let me start off with the important part – everyone is alive. Hawke isn't letter-writing ready. Honestly, she isn't sitting-up-in-bed-without-blacking-out ready, but she's being cared for and will be fine.

I'm sure she will have her own version of this story to tell you, but mine is better and I will tell it to you once I think she's out of the woods and can yell at me for exaggerating. I'm never sure if I've gotten it right if she doesn't roll her eyes and huff at me in annoyance at least once a paragraph.

The short story is this:

Aveline and Hawke went to the compound. Aveline wanted the elves back but it turns out they killed a guardsman who had raped their sister. No one did anything about it. The elves eventually took their revenge. Aveline said they had to stand trial and that she would investigate. The Arishok asked Hawke what she would do, if she would turn them back over to the guard. She was honest and said she wouldn't. And then further honest by saying she probably would have done exactly the same thing in their place. Frankly, if I know Hawke at all, she'd have tortured the guardsman, chopped off meaningful parts of his anatomy, carved the word "rapist" into his forehead and then made sure he got the best healing money could buy to ensure he lived a long life.

Aveline kept pushing, the Arishok told them they were done and the Qunari on the walls started throwing spears at them. Aveline and Hawke got out, but two of the guards with them were killed.

By the time everyone could regroup in Lowtown the Qunari had stormed the city. They were pulling all the nobles from their homes and gathering them in the keep, telling them they had a choice – conversion or death. We fought through the city to the keep and Hawke ended up playing general with Orsino, the First Enchanter of the Circle, and Meredith, both of whom wanted to do things their way. Watching them just give in to her was one of the better moments in this whole thing, I have to say.

We got into the keep, Orsino provided a distraction, and Hawke and the Arishok had a nice chat over the Viscount's head. Then Rivaini walked back in, carrying the tome and handed it over. Never would have expected her to put her neck out for anyone like that. But then the Arishok wanted to take Isabela back with him anyway and Hawke refused. So, he called her Bas'Alit-an, which I understand means "respected foreigner" and is pretty much the highest praise anyone could hope to get from him, and said they would duel for Isabela. He wouldn't fight anyone else because they weren't worthy – just Hawke.

And she did it. She went and fought him. And it was the most disgusting, grueling fight I've ever seen. Smokebombs, poisons, more flipping and dodging than I've ever seen her do, and the Arishok just never slowed down. We all thought she'd been killed at one point – his broadsword went right through her and he held her in the air on the thing. When he shook her off for a killing blow, she somehow rolled to the side and slammed a dagger into his knee. She managed to down a healing potion which I guess knitted her skin back together enough for her to keep going – but he did it again. And instead of just… dying… like any sane creature would do, Hawke pulled herself down the blade toward him and slammed her dagger into his neck.

He spat out "we will return" and she spat right back some broken string of Qunari that made Fenris gasp (still haven't gotten the translation from Fenris) and jerked the heads of half the remaining Qunari guards in the room toward her. Pretty impressive to stun a room full of Qunari when half your major organs are trying to fight your way out of your body.

He gurgled and died. She fell over, and Meredith swept in with her guard ready to fight to discover she got there too late. She made some pretty speech about Hawke being the Champion of Kirkwall while we dragged her to the circle.

3 healers spent hours working her over before they decided they could safely say she wouldn't die immediately. She's back at her house. Fenris hasn't left her room for more than a few minutes at a time – because Anders won't leave and Broody won't let Blondie anywhere near her alone. Sebastian's been there playing peacemaker between the two of them, which is rich given how he feels about Anders.

The Qunari cleared out immediately, just stopped fighting and left. She woke up sometime the next day, smirked and said "I got him" and then "Tell Alistair I'm okay".

I'm sure you'll get a letter sooner than you should. She's damned stubborn and Fenris has caught her trying to get out of bed more than once already.

-V

…..

Alistair read through the account several times, He felt sick to his stomach and lightheaded. He knew he would have been begging for more details had Varric left them out but the mental image of Hawke skewered at the end of a sword, held in the air, struggling, just wouldn't leave his mind.

She was alive. She was getting better. She had healers and well-wishers to spare. She would be fine.

More than ever his instinct was to get to Kirkwall, hop on a ship and just go. But he couldn't do that. His life wasn't his anymore and he couldn't just… do what he wanted.

Alistair spent the next week pacing the halls, snapping at people, having pointless arguments with Teagan over nothing, and engaging in punishing sparring matches with Donal, as if he could speed up time through sheer annoyance.

Donal finally brought him out of it by slamming his shield right into the king's face during a match and snapping "Killing me isn't going to heal her any faster, your Majesty."

After clearing his head from the blow, he sat heavily on the ground "You're right, Donal. I'm sorry. I'm being a right ass."

Donal extended a hand to pull Alistair to his feet. "You haven't been an ass, you've been worried. You aren't someone who is accustomed to worrying without being able to fix whatever is worrying you. And with Hawke all the way out in Kirkwall and your duties here, you can't exactly distract yourself with taking care of her."

Alistair looked at his captain of the guard with surprise. "So you've taken on the mantle of advisor as well as guard captain now?"

Donal smiled, "I'd like to think I'd taken on the mantle of friend."

Alistair clapped him on the back "You never have to doubt that, Donal. If I had my way I'd have 5 of you as advisors instead of the gaggle of noblemen in there."

"The thing to remember about your advisors, your Majesty, is that they're advisors, they're not the king. They're supposed to challenge you, argue with you, make you crazy. That's their job. Their job isn't to agree with you and your job isn't to just give in to their whims."

Alistair smiled back at Donal "I suppose their way of disagreeing with me might be a little easier to handle than a shield to the face, now that I think of it."

"Actions speak louder than words, your grace."

Hawke's letter arrived another week later. Alistair had gotten down to work on many projects, distracting himself as best he could while he waited. The day it arrived, he stopped off in the middle of his other work to tear it open. The letter came with a package as well.

….

His Royal Highness, King Alistair Theirin, Lord of the Realm, His Most Beauteous Grace, King of the Lands of Good Ale and Fine Cheeses, etc.

Did you know, Alistair that all I had to do to be declared Champion of Kirkwall was kill an Arishok? If someone had just let me know I'd have gotten it out of the way years ago. I could have been enjoying embarrassing amounts of attention all this time!

I feel oddly good. Not physically. Physically I'm still a knot of pains in places I didn't realize I had and I'm not sure when that might end but it can't happen soon enough as far as I'm concerned. I feel like I've been abed for months and no one will let me do anything. I had to beg Fenris to let me write a letter – literally beg him – and he still wouldn't let me walk across the room. He carried me to the desk. Picked me up and carried me like an invalid. It was humiliating. But I'm finally here writing to you and for that I will suffer the humiliation gladly.

I've even started to ramble, apparently. Anders has me on these pain killing teas that have made me a little… odd to talk to. Back to my point – I don't feel good physically, but emotionally, I'm feeling pretty fantastic. I always feel a little more clear headed after I spar or after a fight. I feel looser, more myself. Maybe I just needed the most horrible battle of my life to finally put me back to rights. I actually snuck out of here while Fenris was sleeping last night and went into mother's room for the first time since she died. I found a parcel of papers on her desk there that she'd written up for you. They include everything she could remember about her cousin and Solona. She'd left them there for me the morning she was taken and I hadn't been able to go back into her room to get them. They're included in the package I sent.

I wouldn't say it was easy – but it wasn't the same insurmountable impossibility it had been just a few weeks ago.

I know Varric has filled you in on the basics and really, the basics are all that I have to convey. A few points of interest though – the Arishok was the biggest of the Qunari. Taller, broader, larger horns, just a huge imposing hulk of a man. But he was fast. Very fast. He would be across the room and then suddenly I'd be on my back, no breath in my lungs while he swung his axe down at my head. How something that big could move so fast I will never understand.

I also completely regret having had to duel him. I could have let him take Isabela. Maybe I should have, really. But she's mine to protect. It looks odd just saying it that way, but there is it. She's mine to protect just as surely as Fenris is or Varric is or you are. I wouldn't let someone just have any one of you. The truth is, though – I respected him and I sympathized with their position. He was willing to risk death to do what the Qun demanded and I was willing to risk death to do what I had to do. I think we both were just… unfortunate in our roles.

As we left the compound, spears raining down on us and slamming into the few guardsmen allowed in with us, I stopped for a moment and caught his eye. I don't think I saw regret, but I also didn't see wrath. He didn't relish what he was about to do and I didn't relish his death. My, apparently horribly broken, little Qun speech there at the end was more for the benefit of those Qunari left behind.

While making our way through the city I had the opportunity to meet a Grey Warden. Stroud was his name. He and two other wardens were nearly overwhelmed by the Qunari when we came upon them. You know that square where Gamlen's house sits? The Qunari were scattered across it like a flock of birds. Up every set of stairs, across every landing, charging right at the Wardens like a battering ram of swords and horns. I know Wardens are fierce fighters, but I don't think they would have made it out of there unharmed had we not arrived when we did. Once the square was cleared Stroud thanked me for my intervention and then said he couldn't help and strode out. He said he could inform other nations of the Qunari's attempt to take over and I said we'd be grateful for him spreading the word. I thought that was that and he'd leave, get out while they could. But he called me over again and gave me a necklace. Anders told me later that it was enchanted and not usually the kind of thing a Warden would hand over to someone not in the order. I reminded Anders that I had just saved the man's life as well as the life of his men. From what I understand, Wardens are neutral to political concerns, but that doesn't mean they'd be ungrateful or that they snub assistance.

Anders seemed to have issues with the fact that I'd spoken to this Stroud man at all, but of course he evaded the question when I asked why or if he knew him.

And my last tidbit from the fight: don't get run through and held aloft. It's not pleasant. Certainly don't do it twice.

The healers helpfully informed the entire room at one point that "Her womb is intact." So that's good to know, right? Thoughtful of them to say that in front of a lot of people I don't want thinking at all about my womb.

Isabela has been here at the house a lot but won't come in and see me. I know she feels guilty, but I realized that this fight would have happened if she had been there or not. Even if she hadn't returned, he would have challenged me. And I could have turned him down. But I chose not to. I don't know if it was bravado or sheer stubbornness that made me do it. Maybe it doesn't bear thinking about too much. Logically I should probably be mad at Isabela. But I'm just happy to be alive, happy that none of my companions died, and that none of them were taken off in chains to Par Vollen.

I've made no secret of my opinions of Viscount Dumar, but he did not deserve his end. His head was there on the floor between me and the Arishok as we talked. It may have been a factor in my resolve to go through with the duel. And in the end, it may have been a mercy for Dumar to have been killed. I'm sure that sounds awful – but I don't think he would have recovered from the loss of Seamus. He was a broken man with a broken city-state to rule over. If I could have prevented it, I would have. But it may have been better for him this way.

I realized this morning that I watched an entire political dynasty crumble before me. I stood over their bodies. I can't help but feel that there may have been other roads taken, other paths, things that would have changed all of this. I've been thinking about Flemeth, actually. When we met her on the road out of Lothering, when she finished off the last of the darkspawn… She said that we were hurtled into the chaos and fought, and that the world would shake before us. Then, quieter, though I'm sure she knew I could hear her, she said "It is fate or chance? I can never decide." And I've had that exact thought lately myself. Was I supposed to be here? Were these thing supposed to happen? Or was I just here in the moment when they happened to occur? Neither thought brings me comfort. I've obviously had too much time to just lay there in bed and think. I don't believe in fate and I never have. But I don't have to believe in something for it to still exist, right? I never believed in shape shifting witches before either, but clearly they exist. Or at least one of them does.

I think I have another few days of recuperation before I'll be allowed to move on my own without someone hovering. Bath time has been fun for that, let me tell you. Merrill and I aren't exactly on fantastic terms, Aveline is just too busy, and Isabela won't see me. That leaves me with Orana to help me take baths. And while that should be fine, she won't just help me in and help me out. She insists on trying to actually bathe me which I am… not okay with. More slave training coming to bear I'm sure. How Magisters don't simply wither away to bones and skin due to their unused muscles I'll never understand. They don't seem to do anything at all on their own, forcing their slaves to do it for them.

You can tell Donal that I will win every scar matchup from this point forward. I'll put money on it.

I'm ashamed to say that, even though I've only been writing for a short time, I'm exhausted. Sitting up shouldn't be this difficult. I'm going to try to walk to bed before Fenris catches me now. I will write soon.

Yours in pain

Hawke

…..

He hadn't realized before just how much conversation had happened between her and Flemeth. And her comment about belief struck a chord with him as well – he remembered Flemeth and Solona having a similar exchange in the Wilds after Ostegar. It stuck with Solona as well – she'd mentioned it a few times over the following months and had even attempted to quiz Morrigan about it.

The package from Hawke contained not only the information on Solona and her family, but a few more of Varric's novels. Reading Hawke's letters, he could practically hear her voice, her sardonically twisted words and wry humor. He could picture the look on her face while she said these things. Instead of making her seem closer, it just served to underscore the massive distance between then. He was thankful once again for Varric's network. If not for them the letters would be even further apart and even less like the actual conversations he truly wanted to be having.

**...**

Just wanted to say that, I'm terrible about replying to reviews and messages, but I've read them all and they are encouraging and smile-inducing. I really appreciate anyone taking the time to leave me a note at all - I know I rarely do it myself, even on stories I've loved. I should go remedy that now that I know the warm fuzzies from even the shortest of reviews and messages.

Posting this tonight, will post again Sunday night, most likely. Due to some changes I've made in the story I'm doing some more fine-tooth combing to check for consistencies as things get way outside of canon.


	15. Chapter 15

Hawke had finally been allowed out of bed and Anders had mercifully stopped hovering around her room and her house in general. If she had to break up any more fights between Anders and Fenris that week she was sure she'd cause them both physical harm. Even Sebastian's frequent visits had begun to taper off as she watched his seemingly endless patience worn away by the two men forever at each other's throats at the slightest provocation. The long, oppressive summer of Kirkwall had finally begun to fade. Which made everyone else grouse about the encroaching bite in the air and the impending winter, but made her sigh appreciatively as she sat in the garden. She'd never become accustomed to the heat of Kirkwall and hated that the stone unpleasantness of the city would not allow her the crunch of leaves under her feet, the smells of roasted nuts in the streets, or even the simple pleasure of watching the colors of autumn unfold. Her family's garden held more trees than anywhere else within the confines of Kirkwall. Even Sundermount was a barren place devoid of all but the lowest and grassiest of plant life. She wanted peat and moors and soaking, crisp rains. The lack of it made her ache now more than it had ever before.

The ale Alistair had provided was put to good use in the week following her release from her room. She still wanted people around as much as ever, but without the gnawing fear of them leaving her alone. She wasn't exactly elated to be in the house with just Bodahn, Sandal, and Orana – but they made enough of an odd little family that it was enough for now. Her friends still all came around to drink her house dry and her orders of liquor had begun to raise a few eyebrows among the merchants. The Champion didn't seem like a lush, but who could say really? Even without the Qunari around to give fuel to the rumors about her, they still continued.

She heard many interesting things from Varric about the city's conversations about her. Maybe they were old rumors that had been pushed to the background and had only now re-emerged but Hawke found the speculation about her fascinating. Apparently Fenris was her lover, as was Varric. Also, the Arishok duel had only happened because he'd spurned her advances. Why everyone seemed obsessed with who she may or may not be rutting was a point of interest for her as well. It was odd, she supposed that she was in her mid-twenties and unattached, unmarried.

Since being declared champion, there were many in the city who set their minds on changing that fact. The flowers she'd received immediately after the Arishok's death had continued unabated, but their attached cards had changed in tone. No longer gratitude, but interest, invitations, requests for dinner, for walks along the coast, and in a few cases, out and out requests for her presence in their bed. Apparently it was fine now to be a barbarian, as long as she was THEIR barbarian. The men who had practically shuddered at the idea of her rough hands and muscular arms mere months ago were not clamoring for them.

Letters between her and Alistair had been slow going as she tried to find some balance in her life again. She found herself holding on to them for days a time, finding the perfect setting and moment for them instead of just ripping them open as she used to. She wanted to treat them as private conversations, held at the best time, curled up in bed, sitting in front of a warm fire, even sitting in the garden enjoying the last of the waning summer light.

That night she found the moment in front of the fire in the library. Wrapped in a blanket for the comfort, not the warmth, settled in front of the hearth on the floor, she cracked open his latest letter, grinning to herself before she'd even gotten it unfolded.

…..

Champion of Kirkwall, Marian Hawke, Queen Barbarian of the Free Marches, Scurrilously Quipping Maiden of Ale, etc.

I am relieved to receive your letter and see that, though your innards took a beating, your spirit certainly did not. I cannot tell you how worried I had been in the span between receiving Varric's letter and yours. I know he clearly has a way with words but the phrase "She won't die immediately" is not exactly a comforting one. You should let him know that.

Further reports of the fighting in Kirkwall have reached us and you've already become something of a legend, like it or not. The attention doesn't stop at Ferelden's borders, either. The diplomat from Orlais peppered me with questions about you just this morning. Orlesians love tales of conquering the Qunari, having been one of the prime targets in the previous Qunari Wars. The word is also that Ferelden citizens are abuzz about you here in the city. While they don't give a fig about Qunari, they're more than happy at the prospect of one of their own making such big waves in another country. The number of sarcastic comments I've heard about how Kirkwall is so bereft of character that even its Champion had to be imported from a better country will likely not end any time soon.

Stroud is a hard man. I've met him before here in Amaranthine. I'm not surprised to hear that he was set in his resolve not to help. Technically, that is the correct path for a warden. In practice, however, well… in my experience, anyway, there was an awful lot of side taking and fighting for and with people, especially when it came to politics. So maybe my experiences are not typical.

I understand that the Knight-Commander has taken the role of regent in the place of the Viscount. While that may bring stability in the short term, has the concept of an election been put forth yet? As I understand it, if there is no line of succession in Kirkwall, a general election is held. Surely the people of Kirkwall would not choose Meredith as their Viscount. And perhaps that is why it hasn't happened yet. She is certainly the last person in Kirkwall who I thought should be holding more power, but then I'm a little biased. Templars give me the creeps, really. I know that's not manly to say, and ridiculously impolitic, but they rank right up there with swamp witches and huge spiders on my personal list of Things That Are Bad.

It's already started to get cold here, the long winter is setting in, though I suppose it's still some time off up there. Lelianna and Zevran used to complain constantly about the cold in Ferelden. I've been to Antiva only once and it was so disgustingly hot the whole time I'm sure I lost weight while there just from all the sweating. Which might explain why Zevran's armor was so … tiny. The fact that Solona wore mages robes seemed to simultaneously infuriate and intrigue him. It was like a game for him, trying to get her to wear something more revealing. If I'm ever caught in your presence referring to every woman I encounter as "my beautiful" something or other, you have my permission – no, my request – to beat me senseless.

My time at the palace lately has been incredibly dreary. The diplomat from Orlais isn't pleased with our grain contracts as he seems to think that there was some exclusivity clause in our contract with Orlais. We've shown him the contracts multiple times and he's gone over them again and again. He came very close today to accusing us of altering them in order to weasel out of the deal but stopped just short. It seems the issue is that Celene was of the mind that her deal with Cailan had been stated as exclusive despite the fact that the contracts were never written up that way – something I can nearly guarantee Anora had a hand in ensuring. I doubt this is general knowledge, though with Varric it may very well be something you already know, but Cailan and Celene had a very… friendly … relationship. Eamon had been pushing for Cailan to put aside Anora due to the lack of an heir and he was very seriously pushing for Cailan to marry Celene. Politically it would make sense if he could have convinced the people that a strong alliance with Orlais would stave off the possibility of an invasion. But well, I seriously doubt that would have been possible, even for pretty Cailan and all his golden hair.

Do I sound bitter? I've been going through a lot of the deals that were made under Cailan's rule and while the ones that clearly reek of Anora's involvement are shrewd and well thought out, beneficial to all concerned, those that were brokered by Cailan seem outright absurd. He seemed to put a lot of faith into his charm and expected it and possibly his father's legacy to carry him through. Our father's legacy I should say, I guess. That's still weird to me. My father – Maric. But still, I've been compared to Cailan or Maric every day of my rule so far. Usually to Cailan. And it seems to me that, from this side of things, Cailan was a fairly awful king. I know I shouldn't speak ill of the dead, but as someone who has become privy to all his scribblings, I find the whole notion that we share a father rather absurd. It underscores my belief that blood has very little to do with ability.

I'm not sure how I'm going to deal with Orlais, but other things are going well. The grain shipments have started coming and should be here before the travel gets too rough during the winter. It will still be tight and it may continue to be for a few years while the land comes back, but at least Ferelden as a whole won't starve. Though we are very close to going broke.

You don't want to hear all this. It's stressful and nobles are annoying. That really sums it up.

I wish Kirkwall was known for its beaches so I could convince my advisors that going there would be a vacation. As it is, the city still has nothing politically advantageous to offer so I can't quite pull that off. Despite my whining about everything, I look forward to your letters. It's like a little bit of written sanity for me.

Yours in Political Strife

Alistair

….

Hawke's reply to his last letter came sooner than expected. She'd been sending them only every couple of weeks. Alistair had begun to think that the interest in writing to him had waned and she had been struggling with things to say or that she'd simply moved on to something more interesting overall. It wouldn't be difficult to imagine. She had more than enough people to talk to in a given day so why push herself to correspond to a man she hadn't even seen in something approaching 8 months? A man who was a king and who was stuck in a palace with a very set routine. Alistair imagined that Hawke craved more than his ramblings about court and what she wanted was probably something he couldn't provide. He had all but prepared himself for the eventual continued fall off in letters, steeling himself for the realization that might come months from now when she stopped writing him altogether.

But then the letter came.

…..

Alistair –

Don't censor yourself for my benefit. I like your letters, even when they're filled with your concerns and not just bubbling over with wit. I've certainly troubled you with my problems; I'd be a poor friend indeed if I couldn't reciprocate.

"Pretty Cailan", Alistair? Really? Have you checked a mirror lately? You're a walking romance novel. I only saw Cailan once, but I wasn't impressed. And that's not just friendly ego-bolstering talking. He looked ridiculous. He did indeed have golden hair, and gaudy golden armor that had never seen a battle. Waltzing around the camp at Ostegar like a great general – it was not impressive to me or the rest of the soldiers in the freeman's army. He had a nice smile, but my impression of him was that of a man at a bar trying to convince people to put him on their tab. A confidence man, a swindler. While that may seem harsh, I think the tales of his many mistresses may play into it as well. It's possible that Anora wasn't bearing children because Cailan was too occupied with his many women to actually bed his own wife.

I know it's difficult not to make comparisons. He was the last king as well as your half-brother. But make no mistake about this, Alistair, Ferelden is far better off with you as its king than they ever were with him, because you honestly care about the things that matter, you're kind and thoughtful and it shows in everything that you do. You are a good man and a good king. Do not compare yourself to those who would never measure up to you even if they had remained on the throne and you had remained a Grey Warden.

I only know of Maric from stories. And while he was a good king, his decisions also seemed to have more substance. I'd like to think that Rowan had a strong influence there as well. Not as a woman controlling a puppet, but as a meaningful partner in rulership. Maybe Anora herself made Cailan weak? Without knowing much about any of them I can't speculate. Well of course I can speculate, but I won't. Or rather, I'll stop doing it now, since speculating is exactly what I've been doing.

I miss Ferelden winters, Alistair. It feels almost ridiculous to say that when I think back on the winters as a child where I was sure I'd lose fingers and toes to frostbite. Winter was when the bulk of my education happened – my father knew better than to try to get me to sit still when it was warm out. We'd sit in front of the fire or brazier (depending on how we were living at the time) and he'd have me recite out of books or would ask me to explain things to him about the world or history. It was a great distraction from the cold. To this day, I can't help but hold Fenris's reading lessons by the fire in the library, often sitting on the floor. It just feels more… correct.

The few trees in my own garden are all I have to gauge the autumn change by and they've already lost their leaves and stand barren now. The fall is incredibly short here and then there's barely any snow and then it's hot again. It feels strange to think of how much I miss cold, damp, muddy Ferelden, but I do. Becuase the spring there is so short it feels like a gift and I miss taking pleasure in the seasons. Here it slams into sweltering summer so fast, a summer that drags on and on, that I find myself wondering if Anders can cast mild cold spells on me or something. Not that I'd ask. It's Anders, after all.

There is a pond with a massive oak tree not far outside of Gwaren. It sits next to a craggy promontory that, as children, Carver and I would pretend was the location of a great battle between Maric and the Usurper's forces. Bethanny would play Rowan and Carver would be Maric. I'd be Loghain and we'd all battle imaginary foes there for hours before claiming our victory over the Orlesians by climbing that tree and surveying our recently reclaimed homeland. When I think of autumn in Ferelden, I picture that tree and what it would look like in golds and reds, how the pond would gain a covering of leaves that moved across the surface as the first winter winds pushed through, forcing new tumbles of color to dance down across the ground. Even hearing Sebastian talk about Starkhaven has begun to make me wistful and I've never even been there.

The truth is, I have no idea at all why I'm still here. I stayed for mother, because she wanted to be in her childhood home. But this place is a mess. We keep finding these strange messages hidden around the city about the whole place being somehow magically tainted. And I believe it. Even before Meredith took over the city and forced even harsher conditions, the place was overrun with blood mages, demons, Tevinter old god ruins and temples and other things. And now that she's got an iron fist lodged firmly up the backside of the Gallows, more mages flee all the time. Scared mages who feel backed into corners will do all sorts of things to stay free. I've seen it first-hand often enough to realize that, while it's ultimately the responsibility of the mages themselves to stay clear of demons, it's made so much harder when the world seems to be pushing them toward it constantly.

I talked with Orsino today, mostly to thank him for his intervention with the Qunari and his willingness to jump into that fight. But he's on edge and angry. He's not the placid, understanding man I had hoped he would be. So the First Enchanter is scared and angry, the Knight Commander is mad with power and angry, and the citizens themselves are scared. You would think that they could allow themselves a few moments to breathe after what happened with the Qunari but that hasn't been allowed. It's been one screaming void of chaos after another.

Anders keeps pushing me to take sides – his side of course. Sebastian is doing the same. At least with Fenris when I disagree, he hears me out. Sebastian, for all his conviction will also listen to me and hear my point of view. He may continue arguing, but he respects that I have a mind of my own and my own reasons for my opinions. It would be a stunning turn of hypocrisy were he to push me to a decision on something like this and I'm sure he's aware of that.

Anders though never seems to be able to see the other side of things. He just keeps pushing and pushing his agenda. I mean… I know why, I understand. But I don't have to like it. You know he's been putting copies of his personal manifesto into all my books? As if I could have missed his viewpoint in the years I've known him and he just wants to make sure that I really understood where he was coming from. And with him, the moment I say I don't agree with him about something he rails at me, claiming that I'm a hypocrite.

I try to keep a civil tongue about it, breathe deep, calm myself – but sometimes it just gets right up my nose and it's difficult to do anything but heap scorn upon him the way he does to me. And then he'll change things up immediately and be more "himself" (I guess), and do and say things that are incredibly sweet with such sincerity that I can't see the lie in it. Fenris is sure he's just playing but I just can't be sure. I know his… issues… are taking their toll. He's aging beyond his years so quickly and it makes me sad.

I avoid him as much as possible while still trying to maintain some semblance at friendship. I even invite him to the Hanged Man for cards despite the fact that no one likes playing with him. We're all much better players than him and he whines when he loses. I get the sense that he was used to always having things come easily to him and that's just not the case these days.

And I just realized I've been ranting about Anders and that can't be fun at all to read. It's just been on my mind today because I dropped off some supplies for his clinic this morning and got another speech quickly followed by quipping and jokes. I feel off balance all the time when talking to him, never knowing which version of Anders I'll be meeting that day.

So, since I'm unburdening myself of all the things I've had on my mind, I have a question for you and you can feel free to tell me it's too personal and to keep my pointy nose out of it. You're a handsome man, intelligent, funny, an impressive warrior, a king… and yet you're unmarried. Why is that? Is there some secret you've kept from me? Are you secretly bedding women willy nilly on the side and find yourself unwilling to give it up for the respectability of a wife? Are you afraid of being tied down? Because I have to tell you, you're not exactly rolling in options for striking out on your own in your current role as king. It's just curious to me that, with all the women certainly throwing themselves at you, you haven't managed to marry any of them.

And now I sound like Isabela. Except replace any reference to marriage with "sex", "rutting", or interesting euphemisms (I heard her say "Does he Arl your Eamon" the other day. Go on, pass that along to the man himself – I dare you.). My sex life, or rather, lack thereof, has been a great topic of discussion for her lately. As it has been with most of the city it seems. I received no fewer than 3 ardent proposals in the last two weeks, one of which was a DEMAND, not a request, but a DEMAND for my hand in marriage from this Rivaini prince I've never heard of. Isabela claims Rivaini men don't ask for anything, they take, so I should be thankful I got at least the warning of a letter – it's downright chivalrous as their usual proposals go from her description. Isabela believes that I must be lying and that if I don't have some secret lover I'm keeping to myself I must be making surreptitious visits to the Blooming Rose and paying for it instead. It's what she would do, after all.

Speaking of Isabela she insists we go hat shopping tomorrow. I've never seen her wear a hat and I've certainly never worn one that wasn't technically a helmet. Where this idea came from I have no idea, but well, it'll get me out of the house so why not, right? I like the idea of getting a hat for Varric. Something floppy and leather that we can pin up on one side with a feather. If he ever wore shirts with enough fabric to actually cover his chest it would go very well with some kind of ruffled shirt to complete the poetic lover look.

Write soon, Kingy.

Yours in Hats

Hawke

….

The way that Hawke could so casually compliment him – and do so unselfconsciously, as if stating simple fact – was almost embarrassing for Alistair. He knew he was handsome in a general sort of way. He'd never denied that. But he also knew that he wasn't fair. He was a warrior, he had scars and a somewhat rugged face and beard stubble. Cailan was softer, thoroughly a nobleman in every way. He was smooth and polished and women had swooned for him. In his mind, Cailan was always going to be first picked, most desired, most like what a king should be. To have that completely denied in a few short sentences by Hawke was startling. It also made him realize that he would not be willing to just let this correspondence fade away. There was a confidence she was able to provide him that he hadn't found anywhere else. While he'd gotten his feet under him as a king, there were still some setbacks as a man. And Hawke had gotten right to the heart of all of them since he'd known her.

And then – the marriage question. What to say about that? In truth there were so many reasons for his not marrying, not the least of which was blind terror at the thought of making a poor choice and ending up chained for life to someone he couldn't love.

He decided he'd tell her the truth then, as he'd always done. As unvarnished as he could, but he needed time to think about it and time to really craft his response. He'd always enjoyed simply being able to write to her without wondering at the implications of what he said or how it would be taken because she never took anything the wrong way. But this one thing he wanted to get right.

**...**

Hawke had actually taken up running errands for the Mage's Collective out of sheer boredom. There were plenty of odd jobs here and there, but she'd learned to become more choosy in what she would accept in the last few years. The requests from the Mage's Collective were typically simple things, basic needs or letters delivered, things she could easily accomplish in an hour while she wandered through the city.

She had even tried to learn archery from Sebastian. He was a patient teacher, but she was a terrible student. She had never been good at the kind of exacting precision that was needed for archery and Sebastian was constantly having to correct her form, over and over. It was proving to be a terrible distraction since it just made her frustrated and antsy.

Sebastian tried to liken it to meditation and even tried to get her to meditate with him but that didn't work at all. Even he, the paragon of calmness, was eventually annoyed by her twitching. She consoled herself with the knowledge that Sebastian had difficulty wielding two weapons at once and had not a lick of ambidextrousness. In a fit of pique during their last set of lessons she'd flipped their roles and tried to show him how to throw a knife. He'd relented finally and simply admitted that she may never get the hang of archery, but that he'd continue to try to teach her if she was willing to try.

"You know, Hawke, if you would like to talk about what's troubling you instead of pretending you actually want to learn archery, I'd be more than happy to listen." That was as close as Sebastian ever got to being blunt.

"I do actually want to learn archery, Sebastian. I just don't have a calm enough mind for it."

"If you unburdened yourself you might find that your mind is much calmer than you think."

And that was how Hawke began to tell Sebastian about Alistair. She thought if she'd have this conversation with anyone it would be with Varric or Fenris. While Sebastian had never been judgmental toward her he also wasn't the first person who came to mind when she thought of people who would understand her.

"So, you're worried that you've upset him? Is that it?"

She shrugged her shoulders almost bashfully, and Sebastian had never seen her look so unsure of herself. His tone softened then. "Hawke, it's nearing winter here, Ferelden is surely already experiencing the first snows of the season. Beyond that the country is in a dire state. From what you've related to me he's also dealing with some rather touchy topics with Orlais. It's hardly a stretch to imagine that he might simply be busy."

Hawke sighed "I know that, Sebastian. And I've told myself those very things a thousand times. But I can't stop thinking of the worst case scenarios or that I've somehow offended him and that he hasn't written because he's annoyed with me. It's been over a month!"

Sebastian furrowed his brows. "This isn't like you, Hawke. Why does this upset you so?"

"It… I don't know, it just does. The thought of him being annoyed or upset just really bothers me, especially if it's because I got pushy and asked questions he isn't comfortable answering. Or worse, questions he just doesn't feel comfortable talking to me personally about."

Sebastian was quiet for a moment "I still feel like there is something I'm missing. Do you have feelings for the king?"

Hawke immediately began to splutter "What? No! I mean, feelings in that he's a good friend and I care about his wellbeing, of course. But… FEELINGS – I … I've never really had that for anyone. Not as I understand it anyway. So no, I don't think I do but… well… Balls, Sebastian, I don't know."

Sebastian chuckled gently at this.

"Oh great and now you're laughing at me."

"I'm not laughing at you, Hawke. I've just never seen you so flustered."

Hawke huffed out a sigh and crossed her arms. She was pouting and she knew it but she couldn't stop herself.

"It's perfectly normal to develop feelings or a certain amount of affection for someone that you've been corresponding with for nearly a year. Especially when that someone is a handsome, eligible man who, by all accounts, enjoys your company a great deal."

"By all accounts? Who has been doing the accounting?"

Sebastian smiled "You really expect Varric to not say something about the fact that you've had a running correspondence with the King of Ferelden for 10 months?"

"Maker, that man loves to hear himself talk. Yes, I think Alistair and I get along very well. But he lives in another country, he's a Grey Warden, and he's a KING of all things."

Hawke pulled back on the bow again and launched another arrow far to the right of the target before pulling another from the quiver. If there was one thing Sebastian could say for her and her attempt at archery it was that she never let the failures affect her performance. She just kept trying. "But I enjoy his company a lot. And I didn't even have to kill people with him or for him in order to gain his confidence like I have with every other friend I have." Here she looked at Sebastian "No offense intended – a mercenary doesn't exactly have a wide array of social options outside of jobs." Sebastian nodded at her to let her know he hadn't taken it personally.

"Besides," she continued "I am no judge of these things. I understand it when I see it in others but… " Hawke trailed off, loosing another arrow which managed to knick the upper edge of the target before veering wildly to the left and burying itself in a hedge.

"But what, Hawke?"

"But I was never made for that. My purpose was protecting my family, something I've failed spectacularly at, by the way. And now that that purpose is gone I'm… lost. I'm not sure what to do with myself. So I run errands and I torture you with archery lessons. I'd hate to think that I'm fixated on Alistair because he's a spectacular distraction."

Sebastian patted Hawke's shoulder, pushing it slightly lower at the same time to correct her stance and waited for her to let the arrow she'd nocked fly, noting that it was consistently high and to the right – he could work with that. "I understand the issue better now. My advice would be that you shouldn't worry about him being a king. Enjoy his company for whatever it is now and whatever it may become without needing to know. I know that's difficult for you, but you should worry about how you feel about him…" Hawke began to protest, but Sebastian put up a hand, "by your own definition, and not by anyone else's. Even his."

Hawke nodded. "You know, I'd like to say that that helped Sebastian, but I think it just confused me more. I appreciate the effort, though." Hawke grinned at him – "Would you like to watch me torture the bow some more?"

Sebastian nodded, "If you'd like, but you might just want to stick to stabbing people if our progress is any indication of your aptitude." He could barely keep the wicked little grin off his face as he ribbed her.

She clearly noticed it and replied gravely "You're a mean teacher, Sebastian."

"You're a poor student, Hawke."

She turned again and nocked another arrow, lining up her shot. Just before letting it go, she murmured "I'm telling Alistair you think he's handsome."

She actually hit the target this time, though far too high for his liking.

Sebastian released his trademark, long suffering sigh, only just containing the remnants of a laugh. "Of course you are, Hawke."

..…..

It was another week after that when a letter from Alistair finally arrived and three more days before Hawke could bring herself to read it. It was like not looking at or acknowledging a torch juggler in her room, sitting there on the desk waiting for her. At first she put it off because she was actually busy. But then she started putting off opening it out of dread. She'd never shied away from something this way in her life so it was frustrating on multiple fronts. She was sure the letter would be a pronouncement of the fact that he'd no longer be speaking to her. Where did she get the audacity to ask about those kinds of things anyway? If he hadn't brought it up, it clearly was none of her concern. But she'd done it anyway and now, she was sure there would be the gruff annoyance or, even worse, bland dismissal. She'd pushed her luck, her tone, and her level of familiarity with the king from the first day she met him. It was really only a matter of time before he stopped indulging her. And losing his friendship now would hurt a great deal, even if it meant that they'd never truly been friends to begin with and she'd simply been fooling herself.

Stealing herself with a belt of brandy, she finally settled at her desk and ripped open the letter. It wasn't what she'd expected at all.

….

Hawke –

I think you're probably still in Kirkwall because that's where your friends are. You don't really know anyone in Ferelden anymore – outside of me – so it makes sense. I don't think I would be eager to rebuild my entire life so soon after having done it once already. It's either that or your secret love of chaos. Don't deny it; you know you have at least a little bit of affection for situations that are insane and unwinnable.

I myself am also partial to Ferelden weather, but then, I have that whole "king" thing happening. I'd be a poor monarch indeed if I couldn't stand the weather in my own country. Spring in Denerim isn't so much of a gift, I'd say. It's the start of every gathering, meeting, party, and other official event you can think of. "Gift" is not the word I'd use for it at all, honestly. Something closer to "torturous string of annoyance" might be more accurate. But had you asked me 4 or 5 years ago, I'd have agreed with you completely – spring in Ferelden is rather amazing.

On the topic of marriage: I am not harboring any secrets in that arena. My life is all public record so you can ask anyone really and they'd probably already know, much to my displeasure. And the answer to your questions isn't exactly simple, so bear with me.

Nearly from the moment I was crowned I've been asked why I'm not married. The questions range in tone from concern or annoyance to coquettish prodding. And there are many reasons why I haven't married. First among them is that, though I realize that many would not agree with me on this point, I want to marry someone I love or at least like. Apparently that's a selfish and foolish idea for a king to be harboring, but well, there it is. I'm sure Eamon kicks himself constantly for letting me be raised, literally, in a stable instead of having the expectations of nobility hammered into my thick little skull since I was a baby. It would certainly make his job easier if I simply accepted that I'm supposed to marry for political advantage and not romantic reasons. But well, lessons learned, right? The next time there is a noble bastard they know not to shuffle him off to Chantry and tell him his whole life that he's nothing special and he should get used to being a commoner.

In addition to my own, potentially insane, ideas about how I should actually feel about my wife, there are the other aspects of my upbringing that I am sure have influenced my opinion of marriage. I was sent to the Chantry when I was 10 years old. I was raised there by the sisters, well educated, but religious studies were a major part of that education. It wasn't until I was somewhat older that the concept of becoming a Templar was raised. I proved adept at swordplay and completely pointless at quiet contemplation so it seemed a natural fit. Templar training doesn't provide much in the way of female companionship. The Templar training in Denerim was male-only. While there are certainly female Templars, they're usually trained separately, or at least in Denerim they were. It's only when they've come to the point of taking vows that they're integrated and at that point most Templars see no difference between the females and the males in their order. They're all just the Maker's soldiers, no gender differences to be noticed or worried about.

Thankfully, I was pulled out of the Templars by Duncan before I took my vows. I was an awful Templar anyway. Not at the fighting, that was the only thing I was truly good at, much to the annoyance of the other initiates. I was… mouthy. I joked more than the commander thought appropriate and he even told me once that I smiled too often to ever be worthy of being a Templar. Apparently the Maker abhors someone in his service who enjoys his life in the least. I spent more time on kitchen duty than anything else. At least in the kitchen I didn't get constant glares for forcing myself to be cheerful. The only reason I was cheerful on the first place was because I was so miserable. I hated it there. While I had no idea where or what would be better, I just knew that I wanted to be… not there.

The Grand Cleric was incensed that I'd been selected for the Wardens, despite the fact that the woman hated me, and Duncan was forced to conscript me. And I was fine with that. Less chance of being sent back to the Chantry to become a Lyrium addict. But then I was trained with the Wardens and there were no women there either. For six months it was just me and my fellow brothers until Ostegar. With the Wardens there were certainly opportunities for knowing women outside the order, but at that point, well, I wouldn't have known what to do even if I'd had the courage to do it. Several of the men tried their hardest to drag me along to whatever brothel was closest to where we were travelling. Wardens don't take vows of chastity. Our vows pretty much boil down to the fact that our purpose is fighting Darkspawn and everything else in our lives is really up to us. It may have just been Chantry training at that point or getting used to being a Warden, but I had no interest in bedding some random woman in a brothel. Especially considering how many of them had probably already lain with my fellow Wardens. That thought was enough to end even the possibility of giving in for me. That level of sharing was not something I was comfortable with. Besides, I was far more likely to get to know them and have a nice chat about their mother than I was to actually crawl into their bed.

Then there was Ostegar and that's when I met Solona and she was truly the first woman I'd ever spent an appreciable amount of time around. Well, the first woman who wasn't also a sister of the Chantry. And frankly, sisters don't count as women as far as I'm concerned. The way they lectured constantly about lustful thoughts and procreation it was as if they thought demons would surely sprout directly from my nethers should I even contemplate women.

In the course of just a few days Solona went from intriguing woman who looked pretty fantastic in her circle robes and who had pretty eyes and a nice smile to my only surviving comrade, someone I was connected to by a shared blood pact. All thoughts of her as "pretty woman" fled to be replaced by thoughts of her as my closest friend and ally. While there were other women who travelled with us, and Zevran especially was vocal about the benefits of post-battle sex or "I'm about to die" sex, well, my options weren't especially intriguing. Wynne may as well have been my mother or grandmother, as non-alluring as any Chantry sister. Then there was Morrigan who, while very beautiful, was a complete bitch. And a swamp witch. And evil. And mean. And… okay well, suffice it to say she and I did not get along. And then there was Lelianna, also beautiful and sweet and kind. But we met her as a lay-sister in the Lothering Chantry who insisted that the Maker had given her a dream that lead her to us. She was always a little nutty, if you asked me. But she became a close friend, especially after the Blight was ended. It was only Lelianna's prodding that finally got me out of bed after I realized that Solona had sacrificed herself to keep me alive.

And then – I was king and I was expected to not only marry someone but immediately begin procreating. My entire life I've been told to ignore my bloodline and that it didn't matter, that I would receive no special treatment because of it. But starting at Ostegar I realized how wrong that was. I got sent up to the tower to light the beacon with Solona at Cailan's request. He was obviously protecting me suddenly in case something happened to him during the battle. And Duncan agreed with him, obviously protecting me as well. Suddenly my blood was incredibly important. Then when I told Solona who my father had been she treated me differently as well. She didn't hide the fact that she thought I should be king. I eventually agreed because – what other options were there? Leave Anora on the throne? I couldn't do that.

Eamon has been putting marriageable candidates in front of me since the week after my coronation. His patience is beginning to wear thin. I've had no choice in anything my entire life. I've had to do what was expected of me. And I will continue to meet expectations in every other facet of my life. But this one thing, this is my choice and I refuse to give it up.

The problem now seems to be that I'm a king and the women who are even suitable, according to Eamon, will all treat me not as a man but as an extension of my title. They'll expect me to marry them, sleep with them often enough to produce an heir or two, but otherwise to leave them alone. And as for producing heirs, well… Grey Wardens have issues with that, especially the longer they're wardens. It does happen, of course, but it seems to be rare. The chance of my being successful at actually having offspring diminishes every year that I wait. That's something Eamon has never been told, though, and I don't plan on giving him any more ammunition.

So that's it – that's the whole story. Poor me, right?

But really, Hawke, I could easily pose this same question to you. And I think I will, actually. Why aren't you married? Why aren't you at least in a relationship of some kind? You're beautiful, smart, accomplished, and the most effortlessly charming woman I've ever met. I know that men and women both have been interested and I know you've received proposals. Or are you in some kind of relationship with someone and it's just never come up? Given what you said about Isabela's questions toward you, I assume that that isn't the case. But why in Thedas would you choose to remain alone? Frankly, I thought you and Fenris might have been a couple at one point. You're certainly close enough and there's obvious… affection there. You've never talked about that aspect of your life. But, as with your question to me, if that's too personal and you'd rather not discuss it I will understand.

I am very curious though. And since you brought it up I think it's only fair that you reciprocate. I'll be all put out if you don't. I might even pout. And it's heartbreaking when I do that, even when you can't see it.

Yours in embarrassingly personal confessions

Alistair

…..

Hawke, chest thudding like she'd been running, put down the letter and took a deep breath.

He said beautiful. He said charming. Why was he suddenly torturing her with compliments when she couldn't look him in the eye and read his intent? Written correspondence felt like a terrible way to communicate all of a sudden. Was he being silly? Was this friendly? Was she reading too much into everything because, well, that's what she did?

Trying to keep on mind what Sebastian had said about honesty and trying to figure out her own feelings and enjoying whatever time she had with him, whatever form it took, she sat immediately and began to write a response.


	16. Chapter 16

Alistair was nervous. Incredibly nervous. Not landsmeet in front of Loghain kind of nervous, but approaching those levels.

It had been nearly a month since his letter had been sent and still no response. He knew that, with winter thoroughly upon them, that he could expect letters to slow down as they took more time to cross the sea and for travel overland through Ferelden between any of the northern ports and Denerim to be slow going and treacherous. He also knew that he wasn't sure of the state of things in Kirkwall and that he would have to factor in the possibility that Hawke simply had other things to attend to. Even with Varric's runners, letters back and forth typically took a couple weeks.

But his nervousness stemmed directly from the fact that, not only had he laid out his whole, silly history for her, but that he'd pointedly asked her to reciprocate. He was sure it was completely inappropriate but more than that he was worried that she was put off by his prying. He'd witnessed himself the way she withheld information during conversations and from what he'd been told by Varric she was incredibly private about a great many things. This all may have been a step too far and without being around to fumble his way back out of the pit of stupidity he'd walked himself into he felt at a complete loss.

The frustrating point was that he hadn't even really said what he wanted to say. What he wanted to say was that she was the closest friend he'd had in a very long time. He wanted to beg her to move to Denerim so they could have these conversations in person. He wanted to tell her that in the gaps between letters he rereads all her old ones and sometimes in the middle of holding court he'd daydream about what she might be doing that day simply because he knew it would be far more interesting than anything he could be doing and because it involved her. He wanted to confess that when he was making a nuisance of himself while she was recovering from her fight with the Arishok that it had hit him full force just how much she mattered to him.

The letters from Varric hadn't helped matters at all. He filled in details that Hawke left out. He relayed the dark circles under Hawke's eyes, the nearly manic pace she'd set in helping people with their problems, and the several occasions when she'd drunk herself into a sloppy mess and stretched out full length on the table in Varric's room to sleep it off instead of allowing anyone to escort her home. She'd fall into black moods that wouldn't lift for days during which she was impossible to talk to without snapping at people. She'd even gone out on her own at night several times to engage in gang fights without any assistance, falling into Anders' clinic bloodied and bruised, and refusing to explain her actions.

And then there were the drawings. Hawke by firelight at a camp they'd set up, staring soulfully into the fire lost in thought. Hawke wincing as Fenris bandaged a wound on her leg, sweaty hanks of hair hanging in her face and her jaw clenched in obvious pain. Sebastian and Hawke sitting on the ground across from each other in her garden with fletching materials scattered around them, both working intently on fixing broken arrows. He'd started to believe that Varric was trying to slowly drive him insane. But he also knew that if the drawings stopped he'd feel bereft. They were a window into her life that he was sure that Hawke was completely unaware of him having. Given how sketchy on details about her day to day activities had become, he was sure he wouldn't have any sense at all about what was happening with her without them.

He'd never asked Varric why he sent them. He never mentioned them when he wrote notes back, asking after the Carta, the state of the city, how Anders was doing. But he treasured them, keeping them in a drawer beside his bed, carefully flattened out to remove the creases and folded into a soft cloth to protect them from damage. He wasn't quite sure if his need to pull them out and look them over was a direct result of her being in them or if he simply pined after a life he no longer had. During the blight, he felt sure that his life was awful. Now though, he just missed it. Hawke represented a connection to a piece of himself that had been buried under the weight of his office. And while he knew he truly did simply enjoy her company, he was also sure that the sense of adventure he associated with her was also a strong attractant.

His questions about Anders were the only thing that Varric was carefully obtuse about – there had been too many mentions of Anders' "issues" that everyone seemed to know about – but no one was willing to tell him. He was very close to demanding more information about the man from Commander Caron in Amaranthine since Wynne's inquiries at the tower had turned up very little. Something was off about the whole thing and the fact that both Varric and Hawke seemed loath to be plain about it filled him with a sense of dread.

He'd begun torturing practice dummies to quell his nervousness, finding he needed to focus on anything other than his own increasingly tortured thoughts. He found himself in the kitchens late at night more and more often, scouring the larder for food he had no hunger for in a bid to occupy himself when he couldn't sleep.

Teagan and Eamon had both pulled him aside for concerned conversations about his state. He'd been able to convince Eamon that he was simply nervous about Orlais. Teagan had been more difficult. He didn't really believe anything Alistair told him and had eventually given up, but with an air of suspiciousness. Alistair knew he'd have to endure another round of questioning at some point and that Teagan would certainly bring up Hawke as a point of concern in his distraction. It was Alistair's fault – he'd made the mistake of telling Teagan how worried he'd been about her while she was recovering from her duel and Teagan had immediately gotten that gleam to his eye like he wanted to start making plans and sending out marriage contracts.

It was another week before a huge shipment of correspondence showed up at the palace, letters and reports that had been delayed for weeks flooded his desk. His heart leapt when he saw Hawke's seal on one, but he just moved it aside. Even though she'd replied he was still feeling irrationally nervous about it. But now instead of the fear being that she would simply not respond it all it was fear of what she actually said. He hadn't made any confessions, but he also didn't put it past her at this point to be able to read between those lines and correctly infer all the things he'd carefully left out.

He went through the rest of the letters, determining what could be sent off to someone else to handle, what needed his immediate response, and what could safely be put aside for the next day.

It was hours before he was at a point where he could read Hawke's response and by that point he had built up such a head of worry that he wasn't sure he wanted to anymore. He finally asked for privacy and to not be disturbed for the rest of the evening and began to read, dreading and hoping in equal measure.

….

Alistiar –

I got a look at the statue of "The Champion" down at the docks today. In fact, there was a ceremony and everything with music and speeches. It was every bit as embarrassing as you might think. And it looks nothing at all like me. First of all, it looks like a man. And I don't mean that they just gave the statue diminutive assets. No, if this statue were a person he'd give you a run for your money in the shoulder width department. I know I'm not exactly what one thinks of when the idea of a woman is put in your head, but at least some concessions to womanly vanity would have been appreciated. I tried to get an answer as to why I was depicted this way and was told that "it's a metaphor". I'm now sure that the Chantry has been poorly educating some of its Templars as there is no way in the void that Knight-Lieutenant Cullen understands what a metaphor is. He did at least look apologetic about it.

In addition to the fact that it's clearly a man, he's holding a massive long sword and has his foot planted on top of the Arishok's head. So this man who was not me was a knight of some kind and beheaded the Arishok before posing with the head. While I wouldn't have expected them to accurately depict me and the battle, I wasn't expecting it to be all so incredibly wrong. I've included a drawing of the statue that Varric did for you. He also included a picture of me in the same pose with a dagger, but helpfully drew in Meredith's head in place of the Arishok's. I didn't even have to pose for it and he still managed to capture me quite well I think.

In addition to all of that – do you mean Morrigan, daughter of Flemeth? She mentioned Morrigan. Basically that amulet she had us deliver? She was… in it. Or part of her was, anyway. She said that she did it as a way of keeping herself alive should "the inevitable" have happened and made it sound as if she expected Morrigan to try to have her killed. So if you were involved in that then you should know, uhm… I may have been instrumental in Flemeth not actually dying. Not that I knew that at the time, of course. I just made a deal with her to carry a necklace and deliver it to the Dalish. She didn't exactly tell me what the necklace was meant to do.

And… Lelianna is also familiar. There was a young lay-sister at the Chantry in Lothering. Bethanny, who was in much better control of her abilities by that point, adored her. Lelianna always told these romantic stories that Bethanny absolutely lived for. I doubt she'd remember either of us, but if it's the same woman I frankly can't imagine anyone resisting her charms. She was beautiful and very kind to Bethanny.

Next you'll tell me that you recruited the blacksmith, the local Chasind leader, and that hornless Qunari the Chantry was torturing as well. I wasn't around to see him, but Bethanny was frightened of him and Mother mentioned several times that the Qunari in Kirkwall were a menace based on her own fear of that one man in Lothering. He'd killed one of the families that she was friendly with.

Oh Maker – I just realized that you did, didn't you? You said you traveled with a Sten and that he had no horns. I'm stunned that I've just put that together.

Frankly it chills me some to think that our paths crossed that much before we ever knew each other. It gets too close to my thoughts before about fate and chance.

So, to the bulk of your questions – relationships. That's … a tricky topic for me. First – no I am not in any secret romance. I haven't had a single person in my bed the whole time I've been in Kirkwall apart from you and you were there so you know what happened in that case. And Fenris and I are just friends. I don't think he needs a woman or a man in that sense right now. He still has no memory of his life before his brandings and he's still very bitter and angry most days. Even if there were more of a pull between us, it would be incredibly selfish of me to pursue anything. As it stands, Fenris and I are about as close as two people can be without blood relations or sex being involved. He's not like a brother to me. I would never damn him with that since my own brother was incredibly difficult to live with and hated me half the time he was around. He's better than a brother – I never had to deal with his growing pains and we have such a deep level of trust and mutual respect that I can't imagine being closer to another person. He likes to think that I've saved him, but I assure you that in most cases it's completely the other way around. Without him here to lean on I'm sure I'd have fallen apart a million times after you left Kirkwall. His former master can come for him whenever he likes – Danarius will not have him.

Since you outlined the whole history of things leading up to your current state of being without a love interest, I will do the same. Though I fear your story is far more interesting and mine is just more… depressing.

As you know, I promised my father when I was very young that I would be vigilant. Like you, my life has been mapped out for me in many ways for a very long time. When we moved through villages, even those we stayed in for a period of time, it was always with an eye toward remaining anonymous. Never drawing attention to yourself is difficult to manage if you're trying to flirt with boys. So I just never flirted with boys. We were rarely in a single village long enough for that to seem like anything other than the shyness of someone new to an area so I didn't have to work particularly hard to keep to myself. Besides, by the time I was at that age I was most often wearing whatever armor didn't fit Carver anymore and was light enough for me, was covered in filth, and looked like anything but a young lady. I was not farmboy dream material. I was also very coarse, almost no social skills to speak of, and tended to assume everyone was out to get me or my family. So – extremely charming, right?

My father died when I was 17, as you know. The village we fled just before Lothering, where he died, was near Dragon's Peak, a little place filled with goats called Haverston. It was a foolish place to stay in the first place. The closer to the cities, the more suspicious people are. They have greater access to medicine and greater reliance on the Chantry and the somewhat vague protection they supply. Out further in the moorlands you find that people are less suspicious of mages and, if they can heal at all they'll often protect a mage from prying eyes, seeing them as a resource rather than a threat. We'd been in Haverston for about a month when a local boy stopped by one day with eggs, saying his mother had sent him because they lived close by and they hadn't introduced themselves yet. He was polite and tall, with dark hair and very dark blue eyes. A few days later he was back with more eggs and with some cream from their cow. A few days after that he was back with flowers he'd picked. I assumed they were for my mother but, they were for me. He was red faced and stammered and was just the absolute sweetest thing. Even in the years since I don't think I've ever met someone so open and guileless. It was completely intoxicating to be looked at like that, especially since I was 16 and most people mistook me for a boy until I spoke in front of them.

His name was Padraig and he was 18. Whenever I wasn't taking care of Bethanny and Carver or tending to things around the house, I was with him. I'd help him with his chores sometimes, but most of the time we just talked. There was very little about myself I could safely tell him so he did most of the talking. Eventually talking turned into kissing and kissing turned into groping until there were a few encounters in his father's barn. He was sweet and at the time I probably thought I was completely in love with him. But I don't know. I don't think so now.

I've told you before… one day some villagers showed up, demanding that we "hand over the mageling". Bethanny had apparently been practicing in the house and had forgotten to pull closed one set of curtains. Someone saw her and the rumors spread across the village before the afternoon had passed. My father distracted them long enough for me to get our few things packed up and flee out the back of the house. He followed a day later and refused to talk about how he'd gotten away. I of course never saw Padraig again, never even got the chance to say goodbye. Not that it would have mattered – his father was among the crowd who had come to our door.

Not long after, father became ill and we ended up staying in Lothering. We'd been moving south to hopefully take up refuge outside the wilds somewhere or even in the wilds if it came to that. Mother was against the idea, but my father argued that it had just been too close a call. Once father became ill and then died, it was then my responsibility to care for everyone. It would have been frivolous to even flirt with anyone. Not that there were a great many people my age in Lothering to begin with. I was also frightened of drawing any attention to us in any way. So we kept to ourselves, far on the outskirts of town and no one came knocking with eggs. Lothering wasn't that kind of place.

Then Ostegar with Carver. There were plenty of offers for "one last shag before I'm dead" from freemen as well as a disturbing amount of interest from the King's Army. I thought they were all supposed to be chivalrous knights and such but apparently that only applies when they aren't confronted with a rare young woman in the middle of their war camp. In case it wasn't clear, no, there was none of that happening at Ostegar. Not only was I not interested, I had Carver to watch.

After Ostegar, we fled, we landed in Kirkwall, and I spent a year as an indentured worker for Athenril. Again, plenty of opportunity for any number of encounters with any number of thieves and smugglers but I had Bethanny to watch.

And then once we got to Hightown and I had security and shelter and enough clout to not have to worry about anyone having a real chance of bothering me about anything at all, well by then I had Mother to watch.

And also, I think I'd given up. Because my life was never my own and the single relationship I did have eventually just felt like a mistake, I didn't see much point. I am sure Padraig was far more obsessed with me than I was with him. I hate to think of what he must have felt, coming to my door the next day to find that we had just fled. Or, worse, being told that we were apostates. In the right kind of superstitious mind that could have led to all sorts of assumptions about me and about how he felt about me. Either way I still feel regret about him. I should have stayed away, I should have made it clear that I couldn't see him. But I didn't and it eventually hurt him.

At this point, I'm not sure what being in love would feel like. I'm not sure what just really liking someone would feel like. I don't have anything to compare it to so it's completely unfamiliar to me. I hate admitting that anything leaves me feeling off balance or out of my depth but this is one thing that certainly does.

And sex for the sake of it? Something akin to what Isabela would recommend? That's certainly of no interest to me. I'll wear a dress and smile at the men at the Hanged Men who catcall at me. But I'll never bed any of them. I'm not scared of being seen as attractive. But I'm also not so eager for it that I'm going to give away my body to anyone who winks at me. I suppose there is a chance that all of Bethanny's romantic notions eventually hit home. Maybe somewhere in me there is a romantic soul that wants to be wooed and wants to be in love and wants some sort of fairytale. When I get frustrated about something, I want to fight until my muscles scream so that I can finally sleep. When Isabela gets frustrated, she wants to rut until her legs quiver. I understand it, but I've no interest in bedding some man or woman just because I'm nervous or annoyed. It feels… flimsy.

And in my current state, I feel complete as I could hope. I adore my friends, I'm financially secure, I have a great dog, and there is a very handsome man who claims to be the King of Ferelden who keeps writing back to me no matter how much I may ramble in my letters. My life is pretty good at the moment, all things considered. I will write again as soon as I can. I know winter correspondence will be slower. The snow hasn't even hit here in Kirkwall yet but I expect Ferelden is already under several feet of it. I'd ask you to build a snow fort for me, but then I'd just be jealous.

Yours in reciprocation

Hawke

….

It made him almost sad thinking about the fact that she'd never had more than a passing relationship with someone and that it had been so long ago. He had cringed at the thought of the life she'd lead before and knew the way she had sequestered herself from the possibility of friends or even acquaintances, but seeing the way it was all laid out in this letter made it sting even more. If there was anyone who could understand the concept of having your life dictated by duty, he was sure it was her. What was most astonishing about it though was that she didn't seem bitter. He knew he had been bitter about it and that he still was sometimes. But she managed not to be. The way she could just… accept and adapt was yet another thing about her that he found himself admiring. But if anyone he'd ever met deserved love it was her.

He suddenly felt buoyant in a way he hadn't in a very long time. He could deal with Orlais, he could deal with the troubles associated with improving the alienage, he could deal with refilling the country's coffers – all of it seemed like manageable work suddenly. His chest felt full when he thought about her because she just made him feel happy. It felt right having a kindred soul out there in the world. He didn't stop smiling for a week, even in the midst of tedious meetings and planning sessions.

Eamon had, of course, noticed this change in demeanor. He spent a few days trying to gently prod the king into confessing what it was that had him so consistently pleased, but Alistair had perfected his own forms of evasion over the years. And while he was still doing such a remarkable job in his duties as king, it was impossible to needle him with guilt. While Eamon knew he had lost some of the ability he once had at manipulating the king's thinking over the years, he liked to think that Alistair at least thought well enough of him to still talk to him about things. It had never been his intention to hurt Alistair and Eamon still carried the regrets he'd accumulated over the years. He should have insisted that Maric recognize Alistair as his heir. He should have kept Alistair in the house and shot down Isolde when she let the baseless rumors about the boy's parentage drive her to act cruelly toward him. He should have understood better the wide array of sacrifices that Alistair had already made in his young life and stopped himself from pushing so hard for Alistair to marry Anora. That act alone may have irrevocably changed his relationship with the king. But Eamon still cared about Alistair, even when it was difficult for him to express how and why.

So Eamon decided to dispense with the subtlety that Alistair had always chafed at and instead became very forthright. "Alistair, you've been practically whistling through meetings this week. You're never this pleased with this kind of work. Won't you tell me what's put you in such a mood?"

Alistair grinned at him "Ooh yes, I just got a new shipment of cheese from Dragon's Peak. You know how a good stinky cheese always brightens things up for me."

Eamon sighed – so the evasions would continue. "Alistair, I understand if you don't want to talk to me about it, I'm just… pleased… to see you in such a happy mood. It's been a long time since I've seen you so cheerful. And I admit that I'm curious to know the cause."

Alistair had been avoiding this conversation with Eamon. If he thought about it, the real reason was a very childish one – his friendship with Hawke was for him. Just him. He wasn't hiding her – he just wasn't interested in sharing her. But he also didn't know how Eamon would react – if there would be the same baleful look of disapproval he'd given to Alistair's other companions or if he'd leap at the chance to have an Amell aligned with the crown. Hawke was a living Amell with a recognized title of lineage, not a mage, and not an Orlesian. She was born in Ferelden and had in the last year become practically a celebrity. Alistair had done some more research into the Amell family to sate his own curiosity. He knew their lengthy status as nobles in the Free Marches and Hawke's place in that lineage, which would have put her or a husband in line for the Viscount's seat had hysteria over the mages in her family not broken the Amell tradition of Viscounts. He'd at first simply been curious but then had decided to arm himself with knowledge, knowing that eventually he'd have to talk to Eamon about her.

"Well, the simple answer, Eamon, is that I feel like things are going well. I feel in control of things. And I've continued my correspondence with Marian Hawke. She's been a great friend to me when I've needed one most."

Eamon's brows worked up and down a bit. "I've been meaning to ask you how that was going, actually. I understand she's made quite a name for herself of late. Champion of Kirkwall. Seems she repelled a Qunari invasion with a rather small band of fighters and only minimal support from either the circle mages or the Templars. She seems… interesting. It's unfortunate there are so many additional unsavory acts attached to her name."

And there is was – Eamon had been snooping. "Unsavory acts? Such as?"

"Well, she associates with known apostates and has had dealings with a great many underworld elements in Kirkwall."

"And an Antivan Crow, a Qunari, and a circle mage helped repel the blight, fighting in this very city to push back the horde. Their backgrounds hardly diminish their achievements, Eamon."

"Oh of course they don't, Alistair – but those achievements were made because you and Solona were leading them. I'm not saying at all that Marian Hawke is not a great woman in her own right – just that you should be careful – you never know what other facets of her life may sully that great name given a full examination of her past."

"We all have our pasts and our poor decisions to live with, Eamon." Alistair kept his expression bland but hoped that his meaning was clear. Dumping a child into the stables, carting that child off to the Chantry, allowing his wife to throw an entire region into death and dark magic and disarray through her selfishness, short sighted political machinations that were only narrowly averted… the list of things that should be sullying Eamon's name was long and damaging and Alistair was sure he only knew the smallest portion of it.

Eamon was somber in his response, having clearly caught the meaning Alistair had intended. "Indeed we do, Alistair."

….

Through the next several months mail deliveries came to a near standstill, though Alistair and Hawke continued to exchange letters, getting bursts of mail here and there, sometimes as many as five different letters arriving in the same shipment. They'd been "Yours in fur boots", "Yours in nameless dread", "Yours in a new scar", "Yours in the itchiest tunic ever made", "Yours in a prison of stone", "Yours in mabari mutton burps", and most recently, "Yours in a Maker damned early spring". Hawke had walked him through her winter months, trips to Sundermount, nights at the Hanged Man, sparring matches with Fenris, and more than a few anecdotes about Isabela's drunken antics. The sketches from Varric had continued as well and he now had a wall of his room decorated with them all. He had been taking them out of the drawer so often that he decided he should just put them all up so he could peruse them with a glance. Varric had also begun to branch out and move away from just Hawke as his subject, sending Alistair views of the coastline, the buildings, detailed drawings of the Sundermount clan's aravels and more. All of Hawke's companions were accounted for at least a few times either singly or in groups. Alistair's newest favorite was a drawing of Hawke cajoling a merchant who looked miserably put upon. Her wide smile looked almost innocent if you could ignore the gleam in her eye.

Alistair had set in motion as series of plans that would take him back through a portion of the Free Marches, specifically Tantervale and Ostwick, as well as Kirkwall on his way to Orlais to deal directly with the Empress. Letters had been sent to make all the arrangements though he knew it would be several weeks yet until the weather broke enough to allow them to travel across the northern sea.

He hadn't responded yet to Hawke's last letter because what he had to say he wanted to say in person. So he was surprised when another letter arrived a few weeks later. He'd be sailing out of Denerim in several days, most of his itinerary heavily planned, and Teagan accompanying him once again so that Eamon as his chancellor could reign in his stead.

…..

Alistiar –

I know that you haven't had a chance to respond to my last letter, and I don't expect you to. I am just angry and want to say this to someone. I am trying to keep my ranting about this to a minimum in front of Varric since he hates the whole topic and he's the most neutral party I can talk to in the city at the moment.

The whole city is in a ridiculous state thanks to Meredith. People are afraid to even whisper their opinions about her. She's had several people brought in for sedition already and she's taken control of their trials as well. No one is sure what type of punishment she might mete out and therefore everyone is frightened to speak up. I am sure that there are clear rules about Templars holding positions of power like this but no one is willing to put their neck on the line for it. Poor Cullen has begun to look like it takes an act of intervention on the part of Andraste herself to get him out of bed in the mornings. I never in my life thought that I'd feel pity for a Templar, but such is the state of things.

I got caught in the middle of a very public act of sedition by none other than Orsino. He happened to hold a little rally or public demonstration right there in the Keep's courtyard just steps from my front door. A crowd gathered around him as he said aloud all the things we knew – that Meredith had taken control and was spreading even more hate and fear about mages than she had been. That the people of Kirkwall were being subjected to an illegal rulership and that Meredith was blocking the possibility of a vote for a new Viscount, claiming that the instability of the city was reason enough to maintain control. The fact that she herself is the cause for the instability is not something she has paid any credence to. Orsino was, at heart, simply calling for a public election. But because he's the First Enchanter, Meredith saw it as an act of rebellion on the part of the circle as a whole.

They stood there in the street spitting accusations at each other like angry children. She threatened, he cajoled, she threatened some more… it was ridiculous. I understand Orsino's frustration but he knows that this is not the way to go about it. Or at least he should know. Then, he turned to me and asked my opinion. Every head in the square swiveled to look at me. Half the people standing there were there in the keep the night I killed the Arishok. I was no stranger to any of them and I knew that whatever I said would have weight – probably more than I would like it to. Meredith immediately dismissed me, saying that I had no opinion on the matter. It was almost as if she was goading me into saying something with her dismissal and Maker, it worked. I said that I could speak for myself and then asked what they hoped to accomplish with this display. Meredith scoffed at the concept that she was overstepping her bounds by retaining the Viscount's seat, claiming that the city needed a strong leader right now and that there was no one else suitable. Orsino said that the people of Kirkwall needed to make that decision not her. When I asked Meredith if she truly thought that this was the best route, that Kirkwall needed a Templar in charge of the entire city she began to rail about blood mages and apostates and how the danger they presented made it clear that she needed to remain in power.

When I pointed out that she would be far more effective in her duties to the Chantry if she weren't also attempting to run the political side of the city, she took it all a step too far. She asked me, in front of this crowd of people, if I of all people didn't already know what mages were capable of given what happened to my mother. It's been no secret what happened, I know that. But to have her stand there and try to use the terrible death of my mother as a point on which to sway my opinion…. Alistair I don't think I've ever been that angry in my life. I have tried to remain as neutral as possible on this question publically for many reasons. But that just pushed it too far. I am usually adept at keeping a veneer of calm in the worst situations but I just snapped. I railed at her, asking how she could dare bring my mother into this. And she looked at me with this expression filled with pity, her voice quavering, saying that she knew what a terrible price my poor innocent mother had paid for the city's reluctance to "deal with the mage problem."

So I told her she was wrong. I told her Orsino was right. I said that she'd been in power too long and that the city needed a leader who wasn't so obviously bent on their own very specific obsessions. I would have continued, Makers Hairy Ass, I probably would have never stopped, but Elthina came into the square then. She calmed them both, having Orsino escorted back to the circle, shame faced. She admonished Meredith like she was a nanny who had just caught Meredith with her hand in a cookie jar. Meredith looked… outraged? Unhinged? Full of contempt? Maybe some of all of those. But she relented.

And then, the Grand Cleric turned and THANKED ME for intervening, saying it could have been much worse had I not been there. I begged her there in the square to do more than simply send them back to their corners, that she needed to intervene, to set this right. She was the only voice that either of them would truly listen to.

Unfortunately for everyone in this cursed place she felt that what she really needed to do was pray, that the Maker would handle it, that Andraste would show us all the way, or whatever other garbage she fools herself into believing.

Even Sebastian would tell you that acting, choosing, intervening, and making change in the world is what the Maker wants us to do with our free will. Sitting back and waiting for him to divinely intervene is ridiculous. Andraste didn't wait for the maker to make everything better – she gathered an army and lead the fight. If this is the will of the Chantry – to create discord and then wash their hands of it when the resulting chaos is just too messy for them – then something has truly gone wrong since the time of Andraste.

What amazes me is that this was the same woman who stood in front of me and refused to listen to Petrice. She herself said "the Maker gave me ears, he would have me use them," and then listened to what I had to say, even when it was damning toward a member of her own cloister. She was willing to listen, make choices, think about things on her own then. But not now. Now she absolves herself of the burden of having to choose and simply does nothing at all.

I am enraged, Alistair. Having that woman throw my mother's death in my face and then having the one person in this city with any level of authority over her basically just shrug at me… augh!

I was also pulled aside by a noblewoman who told me that, secretly, a great many agree with me and that they desperately want to see a Viscount elected. She's going to contact me at some point about what they have planned. I made her no promises, but, Maker, I am resolved to seeing Meredith out of this position. I've barely held my tongue before, I've barely kept my opinions to myself, but she's gone and made it personal and I can stand by no longer. She's gone and made it my fight and she will regret it.

I don't plan on doing anything rash. I just… needed to get this out to someone. I hope you understand my position. I would hate to lose your support or understanding over this. I'm not even sure what I *can* do at this point… but I have to do something.

Hawke

…

The letter unsettled him. Mostly because he felt just as angry about Meredith using Leandra's death against Hawke in that way, and in such a public settling. Hawke was not a politician. She had not taken office, had not volunteered to be "Champion". Opening her life up for scrutiny in that way was a low move. Maybe a show of desperation, but maybe just the sort of thing a woman far too convinced of the truth of her convictions would do.

Beyond the personal reasons, seeing this level of unrest between the Chantry and the Circle was troubling. Very troubling. He'd managed to keep relations between the two in Ferelden very civil since he was crowned, but that was primarily because he had Wynne as an advisor and she was able to alert him to any potential issues before they bubbled over. The very idea of a Knight Commander ruling an entire city-state was troubling – knowing that it was Meredith in particular was downright frightening.

More than ever he wished that he could just get Hawke out of Kirkwall, convince her to leave. He'd already been considering broaching the subject on his visit before this latest letter arrived. But from the tone she used she made it clear that she intended to stay and see this through – whatever this was and wherever it lead. And he was not about to tell her what she should or shouldn't do, no matter how nervous it made him.


	17. Chapter 17

Hawke returned home from her meeting with Meredith irate. Not the searing rage she'd experienced in the square several weeks before, but that would actually be hard to top. She slammed her armor down, slammed open the door of the library, slammed down a glass and was pouring herself a far too large measure of brandy when Fenris finally spoke up. "I don't know why you insist on beating up everything in your path. None of these objects look anything like Meredith, Hawke."

Letting out a derisive snort as she brought the glass to her lips, Hawke rolled her eyes. "So says the man who still has wine stains on his walls."

Fenris chuckled "You have a point. But don't use me as an example of how to deal with your anger."

Hawke poured some brandy into another glass and handed it to Fenris, who took a large gulp himself. He disliked Meredith just as much as she did and he had been there in the room to see her order them around to do her bidding. It was naïve to think that Hawke had just not understood what Templars do every day. And it had been even more naïve to attempt that tact to get the Champion to change her mind.

"I don't have any problem with hunting down blood mages. I won't chase apostates for the Templars, you know that, but I will assist in helping them bring in or do away with those who have clearly gone too far. And if anyone else had asked me I probably wouldn't be angry about it right now. But, Andraste's tits, Fenris, that woman infuriates me."

Fenris nodded "I know, Hawke. It is unfortunate for all involved that she is currently in power. She seems… unhinged."

"She's always been a little nutty but you're right. It just seems to get worse all the time. And now there is absolutely no one to put her back in her place. She'd have to do something truly barkingly mad for Elthina to intervene and honestly… I'm not even sure that would work."

Fenris looked into his glass and slid it between his palms "Have you talked to Sebstian about this? Perhaps he could ma- "

"I've talked to him. He thinks Elthina can do no wrong. Andraste herself sings the chant directly through Elthina's mouth apparently. And why wouldn't he think that? She's been more of a mother to him than his own mother ever was. She's infallible in his eyes."

Bodahn came into the library. "Sorry to interrupt, messere, but a message has come for you. Would you like me to leave it on your desk or would you prefer to see it now?"

"That depends, Bodahn. Is it from Meredith or any Templars?"

Bodahn inspected the letter "I am sorry, messere, but it does not indicate who it is from at all."

"Hmm… okay… I'll risk it." She held out her hand for the message, "But if this is from a Templar, Bodahn I'm somehow going to hold you responsible."

"Of course you will, messere, I would expect nothing less."

Hawke narrowed her eyes at him. Bodahn's face remained that of a staid manservant. She gave up and turned her attention to the letter. Someday she'd get him to break. But it wouldn't be today. She took another gulp of brandy as she examined the letter. No seal, no indication as to who it was for or from. She flipped it open and nearly dropped her glass.

_Champion of Kirkwall _

_Please meet me in the Keep _

_You know who_

Alistair's handwriting. He was here. Why hadn't he told her he'd be here? His last letter to her had arrived just a day ago and it was more or less an accounting of the issues with Orlais and how the blighted areas of Ferelden were beginning to show some signs of recovery. She felt… panicked. Her heart thudded in her chest and it almost felt as if someone had clapped their hands over her ears so all she could hear was her own blood in her veins. Fenris was up in a moment, "What's wrong? What happened?"

Hawke shoved the letter at him as she ran past, up to her room where she began digging through her wardrobe for something to wear. She heard Fenris call up from below "'You Know Who'? From your reaction I assume you do know who but could you fill me in?"

Hawke yelled over her shoulder and she wrangled herself out of the rest of her underarmor, shedding clothing as she ran and nearly braining herself on the doorframe of her room as she tripped out of her pants "Alistair. He's here and in the keep and he didn't even tell me he was coming."

"Ah, I see. But… well… why do you seem upset? I thought you liked Alistair?"

"I'm not upset, Fenris. I just would have liked a little time to prepare." Hawke was scrubbing at her face and running a comb through her hair at the same time. "Who just shows up like that? It's… I don't know… it's rude or… something."

Fenris had made it to the top of the stairs at that point. Hawke was throwing on a belt around her hips. She'd put one of the Ferelden style dresses she favored in a deep crimson color. She'd also pinned up her hair so that it was pulled back at the sides but remained long at the back. While he watched she dotted a little scent on her neck and checked her hair in the mirror. "I knew that you liked Alistair, Hawke. I didn't realize you liked him… to this extent. Why haven't you told me?"

Hawke turned to him with a look of genuine puzzlement "To what extent?"

Fenris laughed "You did your hair, put on a dress, and actually used perfume. I didn't know you owned any." He had made his way over to stand behind her at the mirror, looking over her shoulder into the reflection there. "You mean to tell me you have no idea what this reaction to his visit seems to imply? You are many things, Hawke. Stupid is not one of them."

Hawke began to reply but realized she had none. She had just… reacted. She hadn't really thought about what it might look like or what she was doing. Her thoughts had been something like "Alistair! Here! Be attractive!" She looked at herself in the mirror as Fenris put his hands on her shoulders. "I'm a fool, aren't I? I haven't even thought about this at all. I just feel so... eager to see him. But I wanted to make sure I wasn't dirty or in wrinkled clothes or my armor. I … I'm hopeless, Fenris." Her shoulders slumped and she leaned against him, the back of her head against his chest.

Fenris chuckled at her, hands on her upper arms. "You're not hopeless. You're just experiencing something new. It's… nice… to see you this flustered over someone, Hawke. You deserve it. And I don't even have anything snide to say about the man. You could do worse."

Hawke shook her head "But I just… he's a dear friend. I shouldn't have reacted this way at all. I just haven't seen him at all in over a year and to have him just turn up like this… Maker, I will be mortified if he's here to talk politics and not for a personal visit."

"I sincerely doubt that's why he's requested to see you, Hawke. And besides, if that is all he's here for, I'm sure you can easily talk him into staying around for a visit."

Hawke smiled "Thank you, Fenris. Even though I'm half sure you're placating me, I appreciate it nonetheless." Hawke turned and smiled at him. "Want to come with me to the Keep? Maybe we'll bump into Meredith, won't that be nice, hmm?"

"Normally I'd say no, that you should go on your own… but I also think you might need a bodyguard in this case."

"Someone to protect me?"

"Someone to protect Meredith from you."

…

Alistair's conversation with Meredith was not going well.

The largest issue was that she wasn't wrong. He had indeed harbored three apostates from Kirkwall in the Ferelden Circle and he had no intention of forcing them back to Kirkwall. They were in a circle, watched by Templars and as far as he was concerned that should be enough to satisfy anyone. But Meredith was not just anyone.

"So there is no chance at all of you just dropping this and allowing them to remain in Ferelden?"

"Of course there isn't, honestly what did you think the answer would be?"

"Well a "maybe" would have been nice."

"I realize, King Alistair, that you are popular with the people of Ferelden. Why that might be I can't say. You have no sway over the Chantry or the Templars and you have no right to intervene in the work of the Chantry when it comes to mages. One would hope that when Ferelden chooses its next king it's someone with a stronger sense of their duty to the Maker."

Alistair watched her huff away and Teagan murmured at his elbow "that could have gone better."

"I'm sure it could have. But the Grand Cleric of Ferelden has already agreed to have the mages transferred to Ferelden permanently and in the hierarchy of things Grand Cleric outweighs Knight Commander every time. She's just a lot of self-righteous bluster."

Teagan nodded. "I understand, Alistair. I just don't think it's a good idea to get her angry. Or rather, to give her general sense of outrage a specific target."

But Alistair wasn't really listening. He had caught some movement out of the corner of his eye and so was looking directly at the doors as they swung open Hake came walking in. She exchanged a few words with one of the guards at the door – all Templars now instead of city guards – and then turned to move up through the center of the room. Alistair was feeling giddy again. She was just as beautiful as she'd been the last time he saw her. Her hair was a little longer and she had it pulled up on the sides to show off the curve of her neck. The dress was of a Ferelden cut but she wore it beautifully, the fitted bodice clearly outlining the shape of her torso down to the tops of her hips. The scooped neck was just low enough to hint at cleavage, but still high enough to be suitable for daytime wear. And when her eyes fell on him a wide happy grin spread across her face, one which he couldn't help but return. It was all he could do to stand in one spot, he was so excited that he was actually here again and they could finally talk in person. It was such a strange transformation from the first time he'd spoken with her – from complete stranger to someone he considered his dearest friend.

Suddenly any misgivings he may have had about this trip were erased. This was the right thing to do. Knowing he'd gotten the jump on her was just icing on the cake. Fenris walking behind her had a peculiar but pleased look on his face as they approached, but Alistair couldn't be bothered to wonder why just then. "Ah, Champion. I see you received my request." He tried to keep his face impassive, tried to play the game of being the King but the playful smirk came through.

Hawke was failing just as spectacularly at remaining serious and grinned right back at him. "A request or a summons, your Majesty? I believe we came to something of an impasse on that question before as well."

"Right you are, Champion. But I see you haven't brought your drinking skull with you. It was my understanding you always had it close at hand should you get thirsty."

"I'm having it cleaned, your Majesty. I've also had my legs shortened and something done about my eyes. Standing 8 feet tall and shooting fire from your eyes is quite an interesting look, but goes so quickly out of style."

"A very practical decision, Champion."

They hadn't stopped smiling at each other since Hawke came through the door. Teagan passed a look between the two of them and suddenly several things fell into place. Realizing they could be at this all day, he intervened, "Messere Hawke, his Majesty would like to host a small get together at the estate we are renting for our stay. He would welcome your presence this evening as well as Messere Fenris's. Invitations to several other of your companions have already been circulated. Would you honor us with your presence?"

Hawke didn't even look at Teagan while this was being said. She only had eyes for Alistair, as if he might disappear if she looked away. "The honor would be mine, Teagan, your Majesty. Since the hour approaches already, however, I must take my leave to prepare. I will see you shortly."

Alistair stepped forward before she could retreat, taking her hand and kissing her knuckles, letting his lips linger before releasing her. He whispered, only loud enough for her to hear, "Until then, my lady."

Hawke was sure her face was red, but she just didn't care. She smiled at him and curtsied and she and Fenris made their way back out of the keep.

Teagan waited until they were gone before turning to Alistair, "So it's Hawke, is it? Eamon and I attempted to puzzle it out for hours one day but couldn't come up with anyone."

"What's Hawke?" Alistair feigned innocence very well, but Teagan didn't believe it for a second.

"You know very well what I mean, Alistair."

Alistair sighed "Out with it, Teagan, just ask what you want to ask and be direct about it."

"Very well, your explosion of giddiness over the last few months – you're enarmoured with Hawke, aren't you?"

"No, Hawke is a close friend that I have been dying to see again and who I've had an ongoing, nearly weekly correspondence with for over a year. I understand how tempting it is to play matchmaker, Teagan – but please, I beg you… not with this. She's very important to me."

Continuing on his theme of being utterly blunt, Teagan went to what the next logical question was in his mind, "Do you mean to take her as a mistress?"

"What? No. I mean to have dinner with her and talk to her and enjoy my time with her. That's as far as my intentions have gotten."

"Alistair, you know that the choice in who you marry and who you interact with and yes, to some extent who you even associate with isn't entirely yours. Don't misunderstand me – I can see how you look at her and I can see how she looks at you. But there is a kingdom to think about as well. It would be wrong to pursue something that will only hurt both of you."

Alistair frowned at Teagan, "I'm not pursuing anything, Teagan, no matter how much you insist that I am. You know I've always marveled at how very different you are from your brother. It's been a comfort to me in some ways to think that maybe I could also be defined separately and differently from Cailan. But I guess some things aren't that different after all."

Teagan was hurt by the remark, "Alistair, you know that I only have your best intentions at heart. I sincerely wish to ensure that you are not hurt by this. I know you've written back and forth with Hawke a great deal, but there will be issues if you pursue this. If you refuse to think of these things then someone must."

"Teagan, all I can ask is that you trust me. I've done everything in my power to be a good king, I've lived up to every ounce of expectation heaped upon me, dodged every disaster, and been a far more competent regent than anyone would have ever given me credit for being capable of. And I've done all of that with little fuss, willing to learn at every step of the way. I will not forsake her friendship, her company, simply because others may frown upon it. Eamon brought up nearly the exact same line of thought before I left Denerim and my response to him was nearly the same… though not as kind. I want you to believe that I know what I'm doing. If not as my advisor then as my friend, please, I need your trust."

Teagan looked at his king for a moment. He knew what Eamon would say. But he also knew what he would feel in the same situation. He'd married for love and not for position. So had Eamon. He also regularly associated with a group of men he'd been friends with since he was a boy, some of whom were known ruffians and cutpurses. Was it really so difficult to allow the king to do the same when this same king had helped overcome a blight and had already sacrificed so much of his own life and happiness to the whims of politics?

"I understand, Alistair. I trust you. And I will support you however I can."

Alistair smiled "Good. Then I believe I have a dinner to prepare for."

…..

Hawke had gathered Aveline, Isabela, and Merrill in her room and they were being unspeakably, ridiculously girly. Hawke had the most extensive closet out of any of them and so they were all trying on her dresses to find something suitable. After much debate and a trial run of the outfit, everyone agreed that Hawke should wear one of the dresses her mother had gotten for her – another ridiculous puffed Orlesian dress with a corseted bodice, but this one in a deep mahogany silk that caught the light and seemed to shimmer. While she'd had hated this style of dress before, she thought it was almost appropriate in this case. Dressing like a tarted up wedding cake for a bunch of pasty nobles was not what this dress was for. Dressing like a tarted up wedding cake for a king and his merchant guests at an official state dinner was exactly what is was for.

Nothing Hawke had seemed to suit Isabela's tastes nor contain her bust but they eventually found a skirt and a top that would work while still affording Isabela the comfort of displaying her assets. Aveline had several dresses that suited her well and so she didn't need to go through the closet at all, but everyone had to pitch in to find something for Merrill. She was just so slight that everything Hawke had hung off her ridiculously. Isabela was finally able to pull something together by gathering a dress with a rather long skirt into a bustle so that she could hide the bunched up fabric that was pulled to the back to make the bodice fit correctly. Apparently Isabela was rather handy at sewing and was able to quickly hem the dress as well.

Isabela and Aveline, opposed to each other in all ways, suddenly came together on the topics of hair and makeup and Hawke was made over with a messy but somehow ornate coif and some subtle eye makeup that did indeed help bring out the color of her eyes. Of all the things for them to find common ground on, cosmetics was the last thing Hawke would have expected.

They were escorted en masse to the estate in Hightown by Fenris, which he clearly wasn't pleased with. Walking with Hawke was one thing. Walking with all of them at once was a little overwhelming between Merrill's inane prodding, Isabela's incessant come-ons, and Aveline's only vaguely veiled remarks about his continued presence in Hightown and the headaches it caused her. As if the only complaints she ever received were Fenris-related.

He'd been a little taken aback by what Hawke had chosen to wear. It was… distracting… to say the least. He had seen this dress before hanging in her wardrobe along with a few others of similar cut – obviously gifts from her mother. The idea that she'd ever actually wear one in public had never occurred to him. He'd seen her more unclothed than this in the past but that was usually because he had to rip her shift off to get at a wound. She wore it well – better than he would have expected and she looked every inch the noblewoman that she constantly swore she was not. He felt vaguely proud of her.

"So, I think it's clear that you've decided you aren't hopeless after all?" He murmured to her, keeping his voice at a level meant only for her.

Hawke smiled "Oh I'm still clearly hopeless, Fenris. I think the meeting in the Keep just let me realize that I might not be the only one."

Fenris smiled back at her "He's clearly charmed by you, Hawke, you needn't worry about that."

"Would you believe me if I said that how he felt wasn't really what worried me? It's how I feel that has me trying to crawl out of my own skin."

Taking her hand and pulling it into the crook of his arm, Fenris nodded "I would believe that, Hawke."

….

Alistair had been milling around in the receiving room, talking to Donal and the few Kirkwall-based merchants who had been invited. While his original intent for this evening had been to invite only Hawke and her friends, he eventually relented and saw the reason in Teagan's insistence that they use this opportunity to solidify any trade agreements they could and expand Ferelden's minute influence in Kirkwall.

Varric had arrived with a very disgruntled Anders in tow. Thankfully the mage chose for once not to wear his very obvious robes and instead was dressed in a passably fine tunic and breeches. He still looked drawn and vaguely scruffy, but it was a marked improvement and far less likely to draw attention. Alistair wasn't quite sure just how known the mage was in the city, though he expected Hightown to be a place of relative anonymity for him as compared to Lowtown and the Undercity. Alistair hadn't actually wanted to invite Anders at all, but felt it would be fairly obvious if he went that route. He didn't have anything against him specifically outside of a general sense of wariness that he felt around the mage. But he also didn't like that Hawke so often expressed her frustrations about him. As far as Alistair was concerned, anyone who annoyed you that much that wasn't someone you needed to end a Blight wasn't worth dealing with.

Varric was, as Alistair had expected, rather dashing. He still had on a shirt that left his mat of chest hair bared to the world but he'd changed out of his usual leathers and into something that looked mostly comprised of brocade and velvet. He looked like a romance novel version of a Dwarven poet.

Alistair had been in the midst of talking to Sebastian, who had arrived incredibly promptly and decked out in the same ceremonial Starkhaven armor he had seen him in previously (and which Hawke once speculated that he never actually took off – even to bathe). He couldn't blame him, really. If he had shiny white mail armor liked that, very obviously custom fitted, he would be tempted to never wear anything else himself. Well, minus the belt-buckle. Having Andraste peering up at you from the level of your bits at all hours would be… creepy.

Alistair nodded at Varric and Anders while they made their way over, welcoming them to the conversation already in progress. He shook hands with both of them and welcomed them, thanking them for coming.

"Varric, I am surprised to see that you let Bianca have a night off. You aren't worried she'll be out eyeing up other dwarves?" Alistair had been bored to tears with a room primarily comprised of merchants so he was ready to get into conversations where he could make jokes and not be looked at funny.

"Not at all, your Highness. Bianca responds to my touch only. She knows that I'm the only one that knows how to pull her trigger."

Alistair grinned "I'm sure the incessant polishing doesn't hurt either."

Varric shook his head "I don't know if I should be impressed or scared by what you retain from Hawke's letters, Kingy. Honestly I'm a little surprised the topic of Bianca has come up at all."

Alistair was already enjoying himself "And why is that, Varric? Is your crossbow not worthy enough to talk about?"

"On the contrary. I just assumed you'd have better things to scribble back and forth to each other."

"Well, we cover a broad range of topics." Alistair grinned at Varric. "Admittedly, very few of them are crossbow related."

Anders stood with his arms crossed. Alistair noted that he was the only one of them who didn't have a drink – even Sebastian had a glass of wine. "I can't imagine what you two have in common enough to write back and forth so much."

Alistair smiled benignly "You'd be surprised at the amount of overlap in our interests."

Anders scoffed "Really? Hawke has a burning need for court gossip and political machinations? And you like to hear about what band of slavers she's taken out this week? Relieving the old glory a bit, huh?" He had an unpleasant smirk on his face.

Alistair just shrugged "I find that people are made up of more than the sum of their actions. Or at least they should be. If a cause is all you have to live for you're not really living much in my experience." That seemed to needle Anders, who shifted his weight to his other leg and crossed his arms a bit tighter. Alistair continued, "What about you? You are from Ferelden, don't you ever talk to her about that or her family or her interests?" Alistair knew the mage didn't.

Anders seemed to deflate a little "Well it… it doesn't really come up. "

"Huh." Alistair shrugged "Well then I'm sure it's not important."

Varric broke in before the uncomfortable silence could start "Speaking of Hawke, anyone want to take bets on what they managed to get her to wear?"

Sebastian smiled "I spoke to Aveline earlier today and she expected a fight. They were all meeting at Hawke's estate to get ready. They have Fenris to keep them on time so I'm sure we'll all know soon enough."

They continued to talk, staying on fairly neutral topics with some light hearted ribbing. Anders loosened up a little when he realized he didn't need to be on the defensive the whole time and that no one would challenge him on any of his pet topics in this setting.

Aveline and Merrill entered first, quickly followed by Isabela and then Hawke on Fenris's arm.

Heads turned to watch the sudden influx of women. The dinner had previously been full only of men, most of whom had already grown bored with posturing for each other. Now they had new targets to posture for. Aveline cleaned up quite nicely though Alistair was amused to see that she still wore her woven leather headband. Merrill was something of a surprise. The dress she wore fit her beautifully and was extremely elegant. Though she clearly was uncomfortable in the outfit, she had the sort of grace that came naturally to elves and which many noblewomen would give anything to achieve.

Isabela was far more covered than usual, though the skirt she wore only added additional effect to the sway of her hips. It was impossible to tell if she did it on purpose or if it was pure instinct. She sauntered directly over to Alistair and gave what he could only call a sarcastic curtsey. "Hello there, your Majesty. You are looking quite fine this evening as always."

Alistair took her hand and gave it the barest of pecks, "As are you, Isabela. You're also looking far more sober than the last time I saw you."

"We can fix that, your Majesty. Where's that cute little man you had with you last time? The one with the goatee and the scared eyes?"

Alistair laughed. "That would be Teagan. He's right over there," Alistair helpfully pointed." And he is hopelessly enamored of his adorable wife."

Isabela grinned "Then I'll tell him he can scream out her name instead of mine. I'm flexible." She then went directly for Teagan, picking up a glass along the way.

Varric chuckled "Yeah, "flexible" is one of the words I've heard to describe her."

Anders chimed in "She's certainly aware of her talents, that's for sure."

Sebastian agreed "And bent on making everyone else in Thedas aware of them as well."

Alistair had missed most of this portion of the conversation because the sea of people had parted enough for him to catch a glimpse of Hawke. She was wearing a dress the likes of which he hadn't seen outside of Orlais. The deep red color and the way the bodice shaped and pushed everything in all the right directions was somewhat startling. The way her hair was pulled up, her back was bare from the nape of her neck to just below her shoulder blades and both shoulders were bared, toned and fair outside of a few tiny scars that Alistair could see from this distance. She laughed easily at something Donal was saying to her by the door, her hand on his arm. Donal looked absolutely smitten with her while they talked. Alistair had rarely seen him with such a beaming smile on his face, making him wonder if Donal hadn't been sipping more than just the weak ale that was being offered around. While Alistair watched, Hawked pulled down a portion of the little ruffle that encircled the tops of her arms and gestured to something, obviously telling a story about it. Donal in turn handed her his drink and enthusiastically unbuttoned his cuff, rolling up his sleeve to show her a scar that Alistair was familiar with on his lower arm, obviously regaling her with the story of how it happened, causing her to laugh.

Anders had apparently been watching as well and broke through Alistair's rapt attention. "I hate when she shows off that scar. Makes me feel like a failure."

Alistair gave him a questioning look but Varric interrupted "Oh stop doing that, Blondie. She lived didn't she? I'm sure she isn't carrying some kind of grudge. Just let it go already." Noticing Alistair's look, Varric filled in the blanks, quietly "We were gathering coin for the deep roads expedition when a group of mercenaries cornered us. They're typically straightforward fighters but one of them had coated their blades in soldier's bane. She got stuck through the arm, through and through, by a short sword and Anders healed her up. No one thought anything of it and we all kept fighting. Hawke stayed on her feet for a few more minutes but keeled right over. Isabela figured it out and Blondie had to reopen the wounds to get rid of the poison."

"Soldier's bane is nasty. And difficult to detect. If it isn't their usual way of operating it makes perfect sense that you would have assumed they were normal wounds. I can't tell you the number of times Wynne began to heal one of us only to have Zevran stop her and tell her how to concoct antidotes for whatever he knew was coursing through us." Alistair didn't really want to reassure the mage, but he felt it fair that he kick himself for things that were actually his fault and not things that are outside of his control.

Anders frowned "I guess circle training does a poor job of preparing you for, well, anything, really."

Alistair laughed "On one of my grumpier days a few years ago I'd have told you that the circle seemed to train its mages primarily in nagging, singing annoying songs, and giving stern looks."

"On one of _my_ grumpier days I'd agree with that assessment", said a cheery voice at Alistair's elbow. He hadn't noticed her walk up and she was suddenly there. Up close she was… stunning. The kohl around her eyes made the flecks of green and brown scattered through her iris stand out more. She had a pretty flush to her cheeks and she graced him with a wide, happy smile.

Fenris relinquished her arm and Alistair shook his hand "I'm glad you both could make it. And I'm glad that the ladies had an escort through Hightown, Fenris. Thank you for coming."

Fenris gave a slight bow and moved to get a drink.

Alistair turned his full attention to Hawke, taking her hand and giving it a lingering kiss. When he rose he lowered her hand but didn't drop it completely. She smiled up at him and curtseyed. "Your Majesty"

"My lady"

They stood looking at each other, smiling. Hawke was fit to burst. She just wanted to throw her arms around him and make a spectacle of herself whooping, she was so stupidly happily that he was right there in front of her. She felt giddy and Alistair looked giddy. She would never have expected to have such a strong reaction to him coming back for a visit but there it was and undeniable. It just made sense that he was here.

Alistair was sure he was red from neck to forehead. Their eyes were locked on each other's and neither noticed the way their companions were waiting for them to break contact and continue talking.

Eventually Varric cleared his throat "Hawke, I can't believe someone got you into that dress. I thought for sure you'd burn everything Orlesian-made in the house after the way you ranted about those dresses appearing in your wardrobe."

Hawke only reluctantly puller eyes away from Alistair, but seemed to regain her focus once she had. "No one had to fight me on this one. The hair, the makeup, the shoes – yes, those were fighting points. But the dress was more or less my idea with a little encouragement."

Sebastian bowed to her slightly "You look lovely, Hawke."

"Thank you, Sebastian. You look dashing as usual. One of these days you'll have to put on something other than that armor just to prove to me that you can, you know." Hawke smiled at him and Sebastian laughed.

Teagan called for attention and asked everyone to go take their seats at the table. The king was ushered to the head and flanked on one side by Hawke and on the other side by Fenris. Teagan sat further down the table in a strategic position so he could continue talking with the merchants. Donal sat to Hawke's right side and Varric sat to Fenris's right. It made for a very pleasant bubble of conversation directly around Alistair and he was thankful that Anders was slightly further down the table. He was just so sour and Alistair wanted to be able to enjoy every moment he had in Hawke's company.

The bodice of Hawke's dress was a marvel of Orlesian engineering and Alistair caught himself staring more than once. She positively glowed that night, looking every ounce the noblewoman and easily steering the conversation or letting it run its own course as she saw fit. Anora herself was never so smooth, being far too impatient for the kind of subtle charm Hawke used to influence those around her. Once dinner was well under way and more drinks had been consumed all around, the stories began. Varric told amazing stories and Hawke allowed most of them to run their course with only minimal interruptions for corrections or scoffing at his overstatements. Alistair, who already knew a great deal about Hawke's experiences in the city, found himself amazed at some of the things that she had managed to pull off.

Once dinner was over, many of the attendees began to break off into smaller groups, which Teagan found himself darting between in order to catch significant bits of conversation or toss in suggestions for alliances that would be beneficial. He was generally working the room as well as he could given that Alistair, who had become increasingly adept at this very thing and who was the far more meaningful candidate for the job couldn't be pried away from Hawke's side. However, Hawke herself circulated throughout the room quite well, dropping into the middle of conversation and delivering sly bon mots that caught the attention of whoever happened to be speaking. Once they were looking at her, she found a way to draw their attention to Alistair, who easily took over. While he didn't directly speak to as many people as Teagan had, by the time most of the merchants had taken their leave a quick comparison of notes made it clear that Hawke had a better sense of who was worthwhile and who was not, despite never having met a great many of the people in attendance.

That alone was impressive to Teagan. Alistair in the last few years had become incredibly adept at reading a group of people, though he still swore he was useless at it. What he lacked in confidence, however, he made up for in sheer bloody mindedness when it came to attacking any problem put before him. If the sort of sly determination he'd developed could be combined with the inherent charm Hawke that seemed to possess… Teagan didn't want to get ahead of himself. But he was clearly beginning to think more like Eamon all the time if he could find himself looking at Alistair and Hawke enjoy each other's company and see the political implications first and foremost.

When it was just Hawke and her companions left with Teagan they moved off into one of the drawing rooms to fall onto the various couches, chairs, and, in Merrill's case, an overstuff ottoman, that were scattered around the room.

That was when the real story telling began – not just the versions of tales that anyone in Kirkwall asking about the Champion and her companions might hear. Alistair was delighted and more than happy to sit and watch Hawke and her friends drink and correct and yell and laugh at each other. She was sat at the opposite end of the small settee from Alistair, shoes kicked off, legs curled up to one side underneath her dress. Alistair was turned toward her with one leg up on the seat so he could lean into the corner and watch her. While he knew the specter of grief still clung to her, he was happy to see her so relaxed. She had such a warm spirit about her that it was sometimes hard to believe the amount of pain she'd been through, the chances at happiness and fulfillment that had been torn from her grasp again and again. She wasn't naïve, and she wasn't such a blithe person that she simply moved on, unfettered. But she had an indomitable will, something in her that continued to force her onward in the face of things that he couldn't imagine going through.

For months he'd waited for the day when she would grow complacent, get tired of him or of her life or of her circumstances. But she never did. And for months he'd felt his affection for her grow until it wrapped around his idea of her. He couldn't think of her without thinking of the way she made him feel. And she made him feel like a person again and more – she made him feel like the person he had always wanted to be.

Anders was the first of their group to leave, claiming duties at the clinic. He was followed by Merrill and Isabela, who apparently had to walk Merrill home or risk leaving the elf wandering the city all night, utterly lost. Isabela had only vaguely teased at Teagan all night and he seemed thankful for it, watching her leave with something like a sigh of relief.

As the conversation began to lose its raucous edge and turn to quieter matters, Alistair realized that Hawke had shifted so that she was now just a few inches away from him. Once he realized that, and before he could talk himself out of it, he shifted himself toward her, leaving an arm draped along the back of the settee behind her shoulders. Without a moment's hesitation she leaned into him, pressing her side against his and her neck along his upper arm. He was almost afraid to move, sure that it would alert her somehow and she'd straighten up.

Once, when Varric was telling her about the look on her face when they'd met Fenris for the first time she laughed and turned her head in toward Alistair's, just barely brushing her forehead along his jawline briefly before turning her head back to retort that no, she did not look stunned, she had been perfectly professional and courteous. It was a small, unconscious gesture and Alistair felt his chest tighten, realizing that she'd just so casually nuzzled up against him like that in a room full of people.

Eventually, everyone felt that time of the night when it was far too late and knew they were simply being ridiculous. Everyone got to their feet, Alistair and Hawke included, and began to make their way through to the main room. Fenris murmured something to Hawke and then said his goodbyes to Alistair, Donal, and Teagan, then headed out of the estate. Varric and Sebastian both said their farewells as well and said goodnight to Hawke. Eventually it was just Alistair and Hawke at the door. He had her within arm's reach all night and he was incredibly reluctant to let her go.

She stood smiling up at him, hand clasped in one of his as he ran his thumb across her knuckles. He had no idea what to say. He certainly couldn't say half of the things that were actually on his mind. So he settled on the blandest of them. "I don't know if I told you this, but you looked absolutely stunning this evening. I, for one, am very glad you did not indeed burn this dress." Hawke grinned at him, but he continued "However, you could have shown up in bloodied armor and still been the most beautiful woman in Thedas as far as I'm concerned."

Hawke's grinned turned into a nervous twist and her whole face went red. Seeing her reaction made his heart thud faster. "Thank you for inviting me, Alistair. And thank you for your surprise visit. I hadn't realized how eager I was to see you until I saw your note." She was looking down at his hands, entwined with hers. "Not that I assume the visit was for me, but it…"

Alistair interrupted "It was."

She looked up at him, with a bright, hopeful look "It was?"

Alistair laughed "Of course it was. Did you really think I needed to come in person to have Meredith complain at me? I came to see you, Hawke. Your letters are amazing and I am thankful and happy for every one of them that I receive. But they don't compare at all to being here in front of you."

Hawke beamed up at him. Relief, happiness, and a burning away of the apprehension all shown on her face. They stood there, holding hands like that for a long moment. Finally she said "I should let you get some sleep. And Fenris is waiting for me outside."

"Ah. I wondered about that. I thought I might convince you to let me escort you to your door."

"But then who would escort you back, Kingy? Besides, Fenris doesn't need weapons to fight and I have 3 daggers strapped to my thighs."

Alistair laughed, hard and loud at that. "Why did I not expect that? I find it surprising that I'm still so often surprised by you."

Hawke grinned "I have my moments, Alistair."

Quickly she went up on her toes and hugged him. And it was like that hug in her room over a year ago. She was pressed up against him and he could feel her warmth against his chest as his arms encircled her waist. He breathed in the smell of her hair, of her skin, and tried to memorize it. Just like the first time, he didn't want to let go, didn't want to let her lower back down from her toes.

When he began to relent, lightening up his grip, she pulled away slowly, lowering back down and looking up at him, a hint of a smile playing at her lips. She backed away, letting her hands run down his arms to catch his hands and squeeze them quickly before moving out of his grasp. "If I don't go now I never will. So I'm going to say goodnight. If you have time tomorrow or… whenever… while you're still here, just send a note to Bodahn. I may be out but he'll get a runner to my usual spots if I am."

She blew a kiss at him. "Goodnight, Alistair," as she slipped through the door.

"Goodnight, Hawke," just as the door closed.

Alistair slumped forward, trying to decide if it was an excess of wine or just being that close to Hawke all night that had left him feeling like this. He knew he'd been anxious to see her, to spend time with her. He hadn't expected it to be… quite like that. Playing dumb with himself was beginning to fail him.

**...**

_Sooooo squishy and fluffy. This is my super fluffy story. Pretty much every other bit of something I've started on is far far darker. _

_I'm in work hell for the last couple of weeks so I've slowed down a little so that I can still post a couple times a week but have time to rework a few chapters coming up without forcing a huge posting gap. I also have started outlining a new very AU Fenris/Hawke story. No idea when it will actually get put up but it's all there in my head and just needs to be typed. _


	18. Chapter 18

Alistair had risen as early as he could and had a ridiculously huge breakfast waiting for him, courtesy of the staff they'd hired for their time in Kirkwall. Teagan, who had already had his much more refined bit of food was still at the table sipping tea and reading over some reports. "Good morning, Alistair, you slept well I hope?"

"I did indeed, Teagan, and you? Any visions of Rivaini temptresses tormenting you in the night?" Alistair was still in a fantastic mood.

Teagan laughed "Maker, that woman is a force of nature. I've never seen someone so relentless. I even talked about Kaitlyn for most of the time and she still somehow managed to turn everything into... innuendo."

Alistair nodded while he chewed "I have a feeling that was her on her best behavior as well. Maybe you're just far more tempting than you'd realized."

Teagan laughed again at that. Silence descended as Alistair continued to destroy the mountain of food in front of him.

"Alistair, I want to tell you that I was completely and thoroughly wrong about you and Hawke. She may be something of a manipulator when it comes to conversation, but she'd have to be a master bard to have faked her affection for you last night. Any misgivings I may have had about her potential for using you – well, they're put to rest."

Alistair smiled at his uncle "Thank you for that, Teagan. I appreciate you trusting me at my word before and appreciate now that you've taken the time to see it for yourself."

Teagan nodded "Right. Well. Once you finish your breakfast we have some minor stops to make this morning and then I believe the rest of your day is free. Is there anything in particular you'd like to do beyond the meetings we already have lined up?"

Alistair thought about it while he chewed." I think I want to see this ridiculous statue at the docks that she complained about."

Laughing, Teagan nodded "it's already on the list, Alistair. I had assumed after you showed me those drawings. We've also readied the building materials and supplies to be delivered to the alienage but have held off on delivering them until you can do so in person. I have to warn you again, as your advisor, that Meredith will likely not be pleased with your interference in that regard."

"I understand. What about as my uncle?"

"As your uncle, I say Meredith can go back to ignoring her self-made issues and let someone competent actually help the people of the city she's letting fall to ruin."

Alistair laughed "You're my favorite uncle, you know."

"I know, Alistair." Teagan beamed at him.

….

His official visits completed, supplies delivered to the Alienage with very little ceremony but a lot of individual conversations with the unusually timid elf population – Alistair had become accustomed to the rather fiery, opinionated, proud elves in the Denerim alienage – he made his way to Hawke's estate along with a small contingent of guards. Teagan stayed close to their rented estate to handle some business with Hawke's mine venture partner, Hubert. The king was completely disinterested in the man and nothing Hawke had told him made him feel like he was worth the trouble, but Teagan was willing to hear him out at least.

Hawke had not been at the estate when he arrived, but Alistair had been able to coax Bodahn into sitting with him and talking while they waited. He'd been there for over an hour when he heard noise coming from a door near the scullery, stomping feet and raised voices. Even sitting out in the main room with a door between then he recognized Hawke's voice. Bodahn, Donal, and Alistair all simply sat, drinking their tea, while the argument raged on.

"… and the fact that you would follow me back into my house to continue this inane argument speaks volumes about your understanding of the fact that opinions differ, especially on this topic, Anders."

"I won't let you walk away from me on this point as you always do. So explain it to me – how can someone who claims to understand the mage's plight and who has shown sympathy for those who are pushed to do horrible things because of the Templars not see the simple truth in this matter?"

Hawke's voice raised even more when she replied "The simple truth?! YOU are the one who can't seem to face the fact of the matter here, King Mage." Alistair heard what sounded like armor thudding to the floor. "The truth is that a mage who escapes the circle so that he can kiss a girl deserves every mercy in my power to show him. And a mage who willingly embraces demons and blood magic does not. You can't really stand there and tell me you don't see the difference."

Anders raised his voice in return "It's all part of the same injustice, the same rotten structure. And you still sent that boy right back to the Knight Commander. What if it had been Bethanny?"

Hawke's voice dropped low and quaked when she spoke "Don't you DARE bring Bethanny into this. It's almost as if you're TRYING to make me irrevocably mad at you." There was a pause and Hawke seemed to regain herself. "It wasn't Bethanny – it was a man-child who had been raised in the most restrictive circle in Thedas and who didn't know a thing about life and desperately wanted to. He got drunk, he got to rut with his bar maid, and then he COMPLETELY WILLINGLY went right back to the circle because he had no desire to do anything but. I didn't _send_ him anywhere. I didn't _force_ him to do anything. He got his handful of life experiences and he happily went right back to the only life he's ever known. Maker, Anders – you stood right there and watched. You heard every word. Is your perception so skewed that you truly believed I forced Emile to do ANYTHING that wasn't completely HIS CHOICE?"

"I think you gave in to Sebastian's ridiculous piety and convinced yourself it was the right thing to avoid upsetting him."

"You are a piece of work, Anders. I used to think that when you said completely ridiculous things like this that it was more down to Justice's influence, but I see that you actually believe this nonsense."

Anders began to speak but Hawke cut him off. "And what about Evelina? Do you have some grand explanation for THAT mess?"

Anders calmly replied "She was pushed to it from the fear and anger of living life as an apostate."

Hawke practically screamed "ANDERS – She was pushed to it because she wanted power. You heard her. She wasn't living the life of an apostate, she was living the life of a refugee just like HUNDREDS of other refugees in this city. Maybe at one point she had some sense – Maker, I've handed the woman more coin than I can remember myself whenever I saw her. We all knew she was taking care of those children. But she wasn't even on Meredith's list of people until she'd become an abomination. You heard those boys – she had been DIFFERENT for AWHILE now. Cricket was SCARED of her. Even if there had been some way to unmake an abomination, those were still her desires. You act as if I LIKED cutting her down."

Anders yelled back "She went too far, but she had good reason. You aren't a mage, you don't understand what it's like to struggle with the demons constantly prodding at you. You think you would have resisted it, Hawke? Is that it? You think you're stronger than them?"

"As you have repeatedly pointed out, Anders, I CAN'T KNOW BECAUSE I'M NOT A MAGE. But both my father and my sister lived as apostates for years and years and often in conditions no better than what Evelina was enduring and not once did either of them even CONSIDER giving in. Absolving her of her part in it only PROVES THE POINT of people like Meredith. You have to draw a line somewhere, Anders. You have to realize that being born with magic doesn't absolve you of your own responsibility. You can't forgive everything related to mages in one fell stroke or you'll end up with an Imperium filled with people like Quentin."

Anders screamed at her "YOU SOUND LIKE FENRIS"

Hawke screamed right back "GOOD! – On this point he's correct."

There was silence for a second and then Anders spoke, his voice a different tenor altogether, one that made Alistair's skin prickle and the hair on his arms stand on end. He was on his feet now, standing near the door, ready to act should he need to.

"You will not interfere in our goals. You will not confuse him with your arguments. We will remove every obstacle in our path and we will bring justice to those who suffer under the tyranny of the circle." The voice was… wrong. It was deep and resonant but sounded as if it travelled into the room from a great distance. It was not a human voice.

"Anders! Calm down! Control yourself." Hawke sounded… scared.

Alistair was already pushing through the door and beginning to drain Anders before Hawke could complete her plea. She looked vaguely shocked to see him there, but turned her attention back to Anders, who was slumping to his knees as the blue lines around his body began to fade and the glowing blue of his eyes reverted to normal. What had been standing in front of Alistair was not Anders, it was something else that he had never seen before.

Anders's eyes flicked up to Alistair, "You DRAINED me. You Templar BASTARD"

"You're lucky he did, Anders." Her voice was quiet, steely. Anders' eyes slid toward her and he only then noticed that she had her daggers drawn, hanging deceptively loosely at her sides. He knew all too well that that stance was a feint she used to look unready and unobtrusive while she waited for the moment to strike. His face immediately transitioned from rage to horror at what had just happened.

"I … I'm sorry, Hawke…"

"Out."

"Hawke, let me just expl.."

"OUT. You lost control of yourself over an argument. You're in my house, Anders. MY HOME. If Fenris had been here you'd be dead. I've suffered the threats of that spirit before – never again. Leave. Now."

Anders rose from the floor, weak from having his mana drained and, head bowed, went back out through the door to the cellar.

Hawke dropped her daggers and slid down the wall, letting her face fall into her hands.

Alistair went to her side "Are you alright? He didn't hurt you, did he?"

Hawke let out a shaky sigh and looked up at him. "No, I'm fine. I … I'm sorry you had to see that. I shouldn't have lost my temper, I know it only provokes him."

"Hawke… what was that? I've known that he isn't trustworthy for a long time but that – that wasn't just a mage. He felt… wrong."

Laying her head back against the wall she closed her eyes. "It's a long story, Alistair. I'm sorry I never told you before. I thought that… we all thought that he would get stronger, not weaker over the years. We've spent so long hiding it and protecting him that I just – it was natural just to continue doing it."

She looked at him then and her face was full of apology. Still, Alistair pressed "You didn't even begin to answer my question, Hawke."

She rose then, leaving her daggers there on the floor, and went through into the library and poured herself a drink. Alistair followed, annoyed now that he'd clearly been left in the dark about something – something spectacularly bad from the looks of it.

"We don't know how it happened." Hawke took a sip of her drink and winced at the burn. "He's never told us. Somehow before he came to Kirkwall he "joined" with a fade spirit. What you saw was that spirit, Justice, exerting his will and taking over. I understand the basic difference between a fade spirit and a demon – but no matter how much Anders protests that he isn't an abomination it becomes harder by the day to believe him."

Alistair was stunned. "How long have you known this?"

"Since the first week I've known Anders. Before the Deep Roads expedition." Hawke took another slug of alcohol.

"And you just… what? Keep this hidden? Protect him?"

Hawke shrugged one shoulder. "It's just… it's complicated, Alistair."

He crossed the room toward her and walked around her so he could see her face. Her brows were drawn and she looked guilty, sad, miserable.

"Would you have told me if I hadn't seen this for myself?" He worked to keep the hurt out of his voice. This wasn't about his feelings – not just now.

She looked up at him then, her eyes darting back and forth between his "I'm not sure. I… we all know. Aveline, Fenris, Varric, Isabela… I'm sure Cullen even suspects something is amiss. But because he's part of the group of people I work with nothing has ever been done. Sebastian has tried to push me to turn him into the circle, but they'd execute him or make him tranquil. I can't do that to someone, Alistair. As much as I hate to admit that he's right about anything, Anders is right about that – my father would never have wanted me to do that."

Alistair was utterly conflicted. On one hand, he wanted to yell at her for harboring some new form of abomination that was surely dangerous. On the other, she'd clearly spent a great deal of time already beating herself up about it. He wouldn't add to her pain on this point, but he certainly would not let this go, either.

"And he's never told you when or how this happened?"

She shook her head "No, I just know that it happened at some point before he left the Wardens in Amaranthine. So, I suppose they would know. But they aren't exactly forthcoming about their secrets so I doubt I could just send a letter asking for information."

Sighing, Alistair put his hands on Hawke's shoulders. "Look, Hawke… I know I don't have the right to ask you this but… please don't keep things like this from me. I may be able to help or may have connections that can at least provide answers. I've never felt okay about Anders and always thought it was simply the way he treated you – which is bad enough. But seeing that today… please promise me you will be careful around him."

Nodding, Hawke took a step closer to Alistair and leaned her head against his chest for just a moment, almost as if she'd needed to slump against something for strength suddenly. She mumbled directly into his chest, "I will, I'm sorry. We weren't trying to hide anything from you, Alistair it's just… how do you bring this up?"

He ran his hands up and down her upper arms. "I understand. I do."

And he did, he wasn't lying. But he also felt wary – like there might be other things she'd simply left out or avoided telling him. It underscored the fact that he wasn't a part of her life here. He was additional, he'd only come in later. There were still things about her that he was learning and things that he would continue to learn that everyone here already took for granted. He hoped that this was the last surprise that was quite this unpleasant but he was also somewhat resigned to the fact that it was probably wishful thinking. As much as they talked and as much as he was sure she was honest with him, he was just as sure that she sometimes sanitized things, left out details. Whether that was for his benefit or hers he couldn't be sure.

Hawke shook her head as she turned; forcing his hands to drop away as she went back to the decanter and refilled her glass. Her eyes remained trained on the grain of the wood in the table before her as she spoke. "He's not usually like that. We were hunting down some supposed blood mages for Meredith. One of them was an abomination – he'd helped her in the past, split coin with her. She used to be a good person – an apostate from Ferelden who had become something of a mother to a whole group of children who had made it onto the ship she arrived on. He tried to reason with her but she was already gone."

Hawke looked pale as she spoke, barely above a whisper. Alistair reached out to comfort her again – she looked haunted by whatever it was that they'd encountered when they met up with the woman. She turned her head and gave him a weak smile "It's okay, I'm okay. It needed to happen. The argument… well… it's one we've had before. For Anders it's all or nothing – protect and defend all mages, without question. For me it's… well I'm sure you can imagine, it's just not that simple."

Alistair nodded and tugged on her elbow "Come on, let's go sit down. I'd offer you a drink but you're already working on that." He tried to smile but knew that it would look as strained as it felt.

She nodded and followed him, but stopped him before they exited the hall, a hand on his arm. "I hope nothing like that ever happens again, Alistair, but if it does – you need to be careful if you're around. Justice hates Templars more than Anders does. I've seen him tear though groups of them easily. And he doesn't rely on Ander's having mana, he seems to have his own connection to the fade and is still quite capable of attacking through Anders should he feel that he's been pushed to it. It was dangerous to intervene."

Alistair shook his head "I was fine. I appreciate the warning, but I wasn't going to stand there and watch him threaten you without doing something." He leaned forward and gave her a small peck on the forehead. He wasn't going to let this spoil anything about his trip or change anything about his feelings. She had been honest with him… just later than he would have preferred. And it was unfair to expect her to divulge everything to him. He was her friend, not her jailor. While he'd been an utterly (and sometimes embarrassingly) open book to her, he was sure that Hawke was not a person who could be that transparent. In her life, it would be a foolish way of operating. And it was difficult to turn on and off.

He was a patient man when he needed to be. And he was sure that, for her, it was needed.

"Now, let's have a nice long conversation about what an ugly statue that is down at the docks."

Hawke smiled and let herself be lead into the main sitting room.

….

They passed a pleasant evening together, though it took some time for Hawke to fully relax. Eventually Teagan joined them as well, shaking his head about Hawke's business partner. The meeting with Hubert had been infuriating, to say the least. If the man had been annoying enough to cause Teagan to exclaim "Damned Orlesians!" then he was truly a lost cause.

At some point, when enough alcohol had been consumed, Donal began to talk about scars again and he and Hawke got into something of a contest with Alistair chiming in as well. The three of them were in various states of undress so that they could easily pull and twist and display as needed, but it was still just this side of proper as everyone was covered and none of them had had to do more than pull up a pant leg or a shirt in order to show off their next praiseworthy scar. The point was to not only show the scar, but explain the experience that had left it and sometimes a less than spectacular scar could be the winner of a given round due to a fantastic story. At some point they declared that the scar along Alistair's chest didn't count or wasn't fair because it was received fighting the Archdemon and that that was clearly stacking the cards. Alistair disagreed, but he was overruled by both Donal and Hawke. Finally Hawke declared that she had the winner. Donal spat out "Prove it!" slamming down his mug of ale. He was sure that the puckered and marred patch of skin on his calf would win out since it was from being dragged behind a horse and then partially through a fire during the blight when a Hurlock had spooked the creature and thrown him.

Hawke grinned, standing up, and pulled her tunic up to just below her breasts, bunching it up in both the front and the back. At first Alistair could only focus on the expanse of her body between her hips and ribs. Her belly button, the very slight swell of her stomach surrounded by well-defined muscles on either side showing off how fit she was but still incredibly feminine with the inward dip of her waist and the gentle flare out to her hips where the tops of her pants rode incredibly low. But then he realized he was supposed to be looking for scars. And there were several to choose from but it was clear what the winning scars would be.

Running from right about her sternum, in a diagonal toward her left side was a puckered scar, a hand span long and a thumb wide. Below that, nearly in the center of her torso was another, nearly identical scar that canted off to the right side.

Donal began to scoff "Yes, sword wounds. Two of them. I'm frankly unimpressed, Hawke." He was goading her and she just grinned back at him, holding up one hand.

"But wait, there's more," and she turned to reveal that each of the scars had a perfect match on her back. The one at the top had some additional lines as if the exit wound had not been very clean. Her back was just as mesmerizing as her front, especially with the way the top of her trousers laid across the swell of her hips and bottom and, Maker, those dimpled indentions he'd seen before to either side of her spine. He'd seen her back a year ago, even teased her with light fingertip brushes to watch her twitch as he'd bandaged her back – but, now they made him feel patently lecherous. Alistair had barely glanced at the scars. Donal however was eyeing them appreciatively and whistled "Same fight?" Alistair had never managed to give Donal the details of the fight with the Arishok. It had been difficult enough to read himself without thinking on it enough to tell others.

Hawke nodded, turning back and forth once more so Donal and Teagan could get a good look. Alistair had known women unashamed of their scars before but… never one who seemed so proud of them. Well, no human women who seemed proud of them. She let her shirt go as she sat back down "Same fight. Arishok, in the Viscount's Keep. A one-on-one duel – thanks to Fenris, actually. Basically, the Arishok had determined I was Basalit'an, a respected outsider. Fenris suggested – without consulting with me of course – that I had the right to request a duel to the death with him. Killing him meant that all the rest of the Qunari would leave Kirkwall immediately. So – we dueled. He had a broadsword and an axe big enough that most men would need two hands to swing it. He ran me through. Twice. I slashed his throat for a killing blow while still being held aloft on his sword."

Donal put up his hands "Alright, I concede. You win." They toasted to each other and drank.

Alistair leaned over to Hawke and whispered in her ear and pitching his voice low, knowing that it made a slight rumble that he was sure would translate as alluring. "At least your womb is still intact, eh?" which caused her to nearly spit her drink but definitely caused her to turn bright red and cough.

She whispered back "Maker, what possessed me to tell you that part?"

"You mean you haven't written up a general notice? I thought for sure the whole of Kirkwall would have been apprised of the situation by now. Or that Varric at least would have had some things to say."

"Ugh, don't even say that. I don't want to walk into the Hanged Man one day and have one of the drunks toast to the health of my womb."

The night wore on and eventually it was time for Alistair to leave with another lingering hug in the doorway. This time they were both well on their way to drunkenness and the whole affair went on and on. They broke away at least four different times, finding reasons to hug each other just one more time before he finally dragged himself away. He knew tomorrow would be his last day in the city before he moved on to Orlais. Part of him felt like this time with Hawke would bolster him through the trip. Another part was sure it would only make him miserable with the lack of her company.

…..

They were able to spend his last full day in Kirkwall together from morning through the evening. They talked in the garden, and took a walk through the city again, lingering in the more picturesque locations this time instead of visiting only the worst parts. He even stood at a polite distance as Hawke handed over several Qunari swords to the Kissoth who had been lingering in the courtyard outside her home. The man was polite, even deferential, and Hawke showed no trepidation in speaking with him. Alistair had never actually seen a Kissoth with horns with his own eyes. While this one was roughly the same height and breadth that Sten had been, the horns added height and a sense of ferocity to his demeanor. Where Sten's skin had always been a strange almost violet color, this Kissoth was gray like he'd been rubbed down in chalk, his white hair feathery and delicate where it dipped around his curved horns. From what Varric had told him, the Arishok was larger and this man already dwarfed Hawke.

That evening they got everyone over to Hawke's to play Diamondback (which Alistair was terrible at, but had Hawke's promise to give him some tutoring). Everyone, that is, except Anders. Aveline was also not there but her husband, Donnic, had come in her stead, apparently eager to play some cards. He had a good rapport with everyone, especially with Fenris.

Hawke asked Isabela to get one of her "contacts" (which Alistair knew was code for "friends who steal things") to change out the locks on the door into the basement on the Darktown side. Her exact words were "I want a lock even I can't pick, Isabela, and the door needs to be reinforced to withstand … well… you know."

Fenris glowered "I will kill that abomination if he even tries to come back here."

Hawke shrugged him off "I don't think that will happen, but I should have looked to getting that lock taken care of as soon as we moved in. Consider it housekeeping, Fenris."

"Keeping the vermin out of the basement, more like." Hawke shot him a look and he put up his hands, indicating that he would stop.

Apparently the efforts with the blood mages had been a team effort and they'd split up to get it all done the day before. Hawke, Anders, Sebastian, and Aveline had gone after Evelina and Emile while Fenris, Isabela, Varric, and Merrill had gone after a mage in the Alienage named Huon. Varric and Fenris had then reported their experiences back to the Knight-Commander, saving Hawke from having to face the woman so soon.

Fenris was still angry about their experience with Huon. Alistair couldn't blame him. Sacrificing your own wife for… power? He'd seen plenty of nobles do something similar without ever raising a knife but either way it disgusted him.

"So, what is it about Kirkwall, do you think that makes things this way here?" Alistair was interested in hearing what others thought.

Fenris replied first "Is it really so different here? My main experience with mages and what they'll do is Tevinter and Kirkwall is just a shadow of that place in comparison. I think the Chantry does what it can, but mages will always seek power and dominance over others."

"We're not all like that, Fenris," Merrill said quietly "the Dalish don't keep slaves and don't lock up their mages and they aren't a danger to anyone."

"Yet."

Merrill sighed "I don't know why I bother trying to talk to you. You never listen."

Donnic cut in before they could continue to argue. He'd apparently been around enough to know where it was headed "I think that Kirkwall is probably a little more damaged than most cities. Even before the Viscount was killed, the city was unstable. Thieves and cutpurses pop up anywhere – but the number of blood mages in the city is definitely more here than in other places in the Free Marches."

Hawke spoke up "We've found some documentation about what the Imperium did here in Kirkwall. It seems they intentionally thinned the veil. That kind of purposeful work in combination with the fact that it was a slave-driven mining city for so long is bound to cause a higher than normal level of demonic activity." She had spoken with him about this before and knew that the idea of Kirkwall as a whole being a tainted place was not far off from his own opinions on the topic. "If there were any mages in the city I really trusted, no offense Merrill, I mean mages in the circle, then I'd ask about it more."

Fenris laughed "What? Orsino isn't trustworthy anymore? I thought you felt he was a good man."

"I think he is a good man, just too frustrated to think clearly these days. I don't want to add worries about the whole city being a demon magnet to his already overburdened mind."

"You know Meredith was… displeased… that you didn't come back to see her yourself." Varric added.

Hawke sighed "Oh I'm sure she was. I'm sure she's displeased at many things. The position of the sun, the temperature of her tea, the fact that mages won't just line up for her to personally make tranquil."

Varric laughed "You think a tea cosy would improve her disposition?"

"It's worth a shot, Varric. We can get one embroidered with her crazy face on it and send it over anonymously." Apparently whatever Hawke had just done with her cards caused an uproar at the table. "What? I'm allowed a little luck now and again! Fenris has been winning coin off me all night."

"And you've just won it all back and then some in one hand. No one is that lucky, Hawke." Fenris gave her a grave look from across the table.

"Are you suggesting that I would stoop to cheating?" Hawke sounded scandalized.

"I'm suggesting that for you it isn't stooping at all."

Isabela laughed "She cheated fair and square, boys. Stop pouting about it!"

Alistair leaned toward her "So were you going to teach me to better play cards or better cheat at cards?"

Hawke grinned at him and bumped his shoulder "I think it's roughly the same thing, Alistair."

….

As he stood at her door that evening, he took both of her hands in his and stood examining them for a moment. They were tiny things compared to his. He could hold both of hers in one of his easily, but they'd accomplished an unthinkable amount. They were also calloused and her nails were chipped. One of her fingernail beds was even black from having been smashed in something, like you would see on a carpenter or a blacksmith.

"I know we write each other quite a lot but… how are you? Really?"

Hawke smiled up at him "Do you think I've been holding out on you?"

Shaking his head, Alistair smiled "No more than I'm sure I've been holding out on you. Just… really, how are you?" He knew it was a lie, but it was a safe one. Varric's letters that filled in all those pieces that she left out made it clear just how hard the last span of time had been on her. She did an admirable job of living in the moment when possible, it seemed – but how sustainable was that?

Hawke took in a deep breath but kept her eyes on their hands, where her thumb ghosted over his wrist. "I'm good. Honestly good. It's taken a long time to come back, to feel like myself again. I think that's probably magnified by the fact that I was never really sure just who I was in the first place. Without a family to watch over, just what is my purpose, you know?"

Alistair nodded, he understood. He'd felt the same way about becoming king and no longer being considered a warden.

"But I think I've figured it out so some extent now. With as tumultuous as things continue to be, I can't say everything is exactly peaceful – but it all feels… manageable."

"Have you considered leaving? You've sounded in your letters as if it's not something you are thinking of."

"Well then I've done a marvelous job of hiding it." She gave him a small sad smile. " It's all I think of. I've thought of exactly what I would pack and what I would sell, how I would divest myself of my business ventures, how I could manage selling the estate from Ferelden – I've thought of it all."

"But something stops you." It was a statement, not a question.

"I suppose, yes. I think that I need to know that everyone would be okay. That Fenris, especially, would be okay. He's still being hunted and I can't even think of abandoning him to that. There's also Orana and Bodahn and Sandal to think of. Bodahn will be fine no matter where he goes but, Orana… I'm not so sure."

"And if all that were settled? If you were sure that everyone would be fine without you?"

"I'd be asking you if I could stowaway on your ship." Hawke grinned at him.

And that was exactly what Alistair knew he'd been hoping to hear without realizing it until she said it. He put his hand on the back of her head and pulled her into his chest, wrapping his arms around her in a tight hug. "The last thing I want to do is leave right now. Your letters are fantastic and get me through a lot of days but it's just not the same as being able to talk to you."

Hawke's hands had bunched themselves into the back of his shirt as she nuzzled her cheek against his chest "I know the feeling. I've missed your voice. Besides, Fenris doesn't hug."

Alistair laughed at that and bent over her slightly, causing her body to curve into him and push her off balance until she laughed.

He placed a kiss on her forehead and lingered there for a moment, breathing out through his nose before stepping back.

"Meet me at the docks in the morning?"

"I will be there without a doubt."

He let her go and left, walking backward through the door so he could watch her face as she smiled at him, inching the door closed until the dark made only an outline of him.

…..

They said goodbye at the docks as Alistair was taking a ship from Kirkwall onward to Orlais. Fenris and Varric both went down to the dock with Hawke. She'd had uneasy dreams about doom. All of the happy moments in her life had been fleeting and were often followed swiftly by terrible sorrow. She dreaded that this was going to be another. But she pushed those thoughts away, determined that she would enjoy how she felt for as long as she was able to.

But he was leaving today. And while she could smile honestly at seeing him off, three days had not been enough.

When she saw Alistair coming down the gangplank toward her, smiling, brown eyes bright, sun tipped hair seeming to glow around him, she couldn't help but smile back, no matter her trepidation. Teagan was already inside the ship and had bid them all farewell just shortly before. There were many spectators loitering around the area, eager for any sort of break from the routine. Meredith, of course, was completely disinterested in the niceties of politics and keeping up good relations with fellow countries so she and her Templars were thankfully absent.

Alistair went to Varric and Fenris first and Donal stepped up to Hawke.

"I have to ask you not to get any more amazing scars until I can catch up to you, my lady. You have to give a man a fighting chance." Donal grinned at her. Hawke had become really fond of him in a short time. He reminded her of the good in the people of Ferelden, those few and far between who were just honest and true and who made the most of their lives through hard work and sacrifice.

"I can't make any promises, Donal, but I'll avoid it for your sake specifically if not my own."

"And that's all I can ask of you." Donal bowed slightly and moved off to shake Fenris's hand. They'd had something of a bonding session talking about body guarding of all things and were suddenly friends. Anders would have swallowed his foot to see someone get into Fenris's good graces so effortlessly. Even Hawke had had to work at it for a good long while. Donal clapped Varric on the back as well and then stood at the end of the gangplank, awaiting the king who had moved over to Hawke. Fenris and Varric had thoughtfully moved slightly away to afford them as much privacy as could be had in the situation with a crowd of onlookers gathered around.

Alistair took both of Hawke's hands in his and she was surprised. "Uhm… Alistair… we uh… aren't exactly alone."

Alistair smiled at her "Yes, I noticed. Did you have a point?"

"Well is it uh… strictly proper for you to be … holding my hands?"

Alistair shrugged "probably not."

Hawke laughed – so that's how it was going to be. "I see, your Majesty. People will talk you know."

"I can only hope, Hawke. While I wouldn't want to embroil you in scandal, being implicated in some sort of impropriety with the Champion of Kirkwall can only be a good thing for me politically." He continued to smile at her, looking content and relaxed. She felt there was never a time in his presence when she wasn't smiling, but it was especially pronounced just then.

"Can't you just send Celene a note? Tell her she's being silly and I'm sure she'll see reason and you can forego this whole," Hawke waved a hand vaguely, "trip thing."

"Oh! I hadn't thought of that – that just might work, actually. How about "Dear Celene – You are being quite the little goof. Don't you agree? Kisses! – Alistair"? You think that will work?"

"Sounds spot on to me. Just go cancel the ship and I'll dig up some parchment for you." Hawke grinned up at him.

Alistair sighed. "I will try to be out of Orlais as quickly as I can. But then I have to go back to Ferelden."

"And I'm sure there will be some new disaster to handle here. I will write to you, and frequently.

"I will send off a letter the moment we dock in Orlais. We'll be there two weeks and I've already worked out something with Varric's runners so you can drop anything for me off with him and he'll see that I get it." Alistiar lifted her hands, kissing them both before turning and jogging back up the gangplank.

Hawke wandered back over to Varric and Fenris and let her eyes follow the king's progress through the throngs of the ship as it prepared to set off.

"That seemed to go… well… Hawke. Anything you want to tell me?" Varric immediately prodded.

"You're not getting any stories out of me, Tethras. You'll just have to create them out of whole cloth."

"But what about your audience here? They're going to want to know what that was all about."

"And I'm sure you'll come up with something to tell them, Varric. You're the official biographer, not me."

Varric was quiet for a few minutes while the ship began to cast off its lines and pull away from the pier. Just before it got fully turned, Alistair appeared at the deck. Everyone in the crowd waved at the king, but Alistair had eyes for just one figure left on the dock and she for him.

"Oh I can see that I won't have any trouble coming up with some choice stories, Hawke."

"I knew you'd come through, Varric.

"I always do."


	19. Chapter 19

Alistair had only been in Orlais for a few hours when the first runner found him with a letter from Hawke. As much as he wanted to read it immediately, he also didn't want to be seen standing in a street in Val Royeaux with a goofy grin on his face. In Ferelden, goofy grins were his bread and butter. In Orlais… he was fairly certain his sometimes unfiltered silliness wouldn't be treated with the same indulgence.

The royal entourage was greeted at the dock by more representatives of the empresses' personal guard than Alistair currently kept in attendance in the Ferelden palace on any given day. Ferelden desperately needed to replenish its number of soldiers after the devastation of the blight and most of the king's guard had become recruiters, drill sergeants, and personal trainers, spread throughout Ferelden, finding and training young men and women who were willing to join the army. Contingents had been sent to the coastal areas, looking for shipwrights and sailors, wooing grizzled veterans of merchants ships and their crews into a life of service to the country and a dockyard in Denerim. His more wily soldiers had been combing Denerim and Gwaren and Redcliffe and every place in-between for the stealthy and the quick, hoping the promise of steady work could put their nimble fingers and keen eyes to work for the crown instead of bump and grabs in the local markets.

The waste of manpower was all Alistair could see in the welcome. He knew the intention was to show him might and power. But it told him a very different tale of how Orlais was faring these days and what story it wanted to tell the outside world – what story it wanted him to believe. Celene was telling him, and her own people, that Orlais was so secure that it could spare 30 men to stand on a dock and wait for a boat for no other reason than just to stand there. It wasn't a show of force – it was a show of complacency.

They were escorted down through the warren of piers and workers and pallets of goods that comprised the busy port, past countless workmen who didn't even bother to cast curious looks at the number of guards or who the guards might have with them. If his gut instincts didn't tell him already, that would have been enough. The people of Orlais were feeling desperate. The empress did as she liked, but her existence had no bearing on their own lives. They had work to do. Load this ship and the next and the next and hope that any of it lead to a good return. Fall into a tavern at the end of the night and pray that the next day wasn't as grueling while praying that there was still as much work. These men took their task the way hungry animals took to a meal – knowing that it might be the only one for a long time.

They were finally exhorted into a ridiculously over-embellished carriage that looked like it might melt into a multi-colored puddle were it ever to rain.

As proper as it was, Alistair had an irrational dislike of carriages. They felt like a ridiculous way to travel when the horses themselves could easily move them toward their destination twice as quickly. Maker, he could walk to the palace faster than they were moving right now over the impressive-looking but horribly bumpy cobbled streets.

It did allow him time to discuss some last minute things with Teagan before they were to be ensconced in their guest chambers where they knew they couldn't speak at all unless it was something that they wanted to have overheard. It sometimes amazed Alistair how far monarchs would go to spy on their guest. He also wondered how powerful the bard guilds in Orlais were as compared to the Antivan Crows. The bards didn't seem to hold as much direct political power, but that may have just been for show. Maybe they were more adept at quietly pulling the strings than the Crows were.

They were greeted by a contingent of servants, porters, and butlers at the Palace stair and escorted to what would be their chambers for the duration of their stay. Massive mirrors, gilt bas-reliefs, and meticulously detailed floral borders seemed to cover every minute portion of available wall. The entire palace screamed of femininity and gentility in a way that made Alistair wish for some dirt or a sparring match or something else that could be defined as at least vaguely masculine. Anything to cut through the saccharine… gold and pinkness of it all. He'd have to remember to ask Hawke how she felt about this kind of thing. Given the décor in her own home he couldn't imagine that she went in for current Orlesian finery. But there had been that dress. That ridiculous, wonderful dress. Her mother had practically thrown her to the wolves in a dress like that. It made him appreciate again that she was not the kind of woman who needed rescuing. Even weighed down in silks and crinoline and boning she seemed light on her feet, agile. It was something noble women across Thedas aspired to for the sake of the appearance. He liked that, for Hawke, it was far more than just a desire to look petite and fragile that made her seem to float around as she moved.

Once in their guest suites Alistair was able to bathe and change in preparation for the meeting the Celene. It would be brief, just a basic welcome to the grounds. Then that evening he'd have a dinner to attend along with many dignitaries. And then, mercifully, he'd have at least a few hours to just sleep. Alistair could really sleep anywhere - on ships, on the bare ground, among rocks and boulders, he'd even slept on horseback while riding a few times. But he also never got quite as much as he wanted to so was always hungry for it.

While soaking the smell of sweat and travel off in the tub he let himself read Hawke's letter. He had considered holding on to it until that night but he was just too impatient. It had been a week of travel and he had been considering writing to her while on the ship. But outside of stupidly repeating "I wish I could have stayed longer" a lot and maybe describing what each of the crewmen looked like he really had nothing to say. The last thing he wanted was to suddenly put her off by being boring. He had a feeling that Hawke could deal with many personality flaws but that boring would not be one of them. The letter served to heavily underscore that point.

…

Alistair –

I've spent some time this week picking up some new jobs. Well, I guess it would be more accurate to say that they've come to me. And some of them aren't strictly "jobs". Just things that are happening.

First – There's something going on with my uncle. Some "gem" that he got a note about and then went immediately shifty and evasive over when I asked him to explain what it was. I know very little of his life outside of what my mother told me about how he'd been before she left Kirkwall with my father and then what he's been like since we returned. From what I've gathered so far, someone has gone to a great deal of trouble to set up some kind of… trail of clues for him to follow. Tomorrow I'm following up on a meeting that was set up for him to gather this gem and hopefully it will all make sense then. If it doesn't, then I'm not sure I can put too much more effort into it. I can't imagine what reason anyone would have for trying to start some sort of game with Galem. But I'm far too curious just to shrug it off and, loathe as I am to admit it, he's the only family I have left.

Second – Fenris apparently continued to hunt out clues about his sister without telling me about it. Which is fine – I can imagine that he didn't want to talk about it if he didn't find anything. But he did track her down, sent her letters, and eventually convinced her to visit. She should be arriving sometime in the next few weeks and he's asked me to be there when he meets with her. I can't stress the importance of a meeting like this for him. He has no memories of his life before his markings and just knowing that there is someone out there who might be able to tell him more is both intriguing and frightening for him. I can only imagine what it must be like to be in that state. I don't know if I would want to know if it were me. But, hopefully this sister can bring him a measure of peace even if she can't help him regain his memories.

If she is anything other than amazing to him he's probably going to regret bringing me. I will not sit by and watch someone hurt him.

Third – I spent a whole day wandering through the sewers with Anders looking for bizarre ingredients for some potion. Why anyone would think in the first place to put something that can only be found in urine and excrement into a potion and give it a swig is beyond me. I am… not thrilled… to be helping Anders. However, he sent me a note, asking me to come to the clinic to talk. And, with Aveline and Fenris in tow I did just that. He told me that he'd been doing a great deal of research into ways to separate himself from Justice despite having told me previously that there was absolutely no way to separate a fade spirit from a person once they'd joined. But now he thinks he has found a potion - something the Tevinter magisters discovered – that may separate the two of them. Fenris has instilled me with a healthy dose of distrust and suspicion regarding anything related to Tevinter, and I already don't trust him. But for the chance that something can get that spirit out of him… I will help.

Anders also asked if I was sure about "this Alistair person" being allowed into my life. Apparently you almost being a Templar at one point in your life (and the whole Warden thing) sits very poorly with him. But, as I told him, it's none of his business and yes, I'm completely sure. You've been gone for only a few days and look at how I'm defending your honor!

I've learned something that I think can easily fall under the category of sage advice. The kind of thing you can use at a party to make people nod and murmur at how truly wise you are. Here it is:

Sewers smell.

Tuck that into your pocket and save it for a rainy day, my sweet.

Fourth – Zevran Ariani is shorter than I thought he'd be.

What? You expected a story with that? Oh alright, if you insist.

I was walking through Hightown trying to track down Isabela. She wasn't at the docks, she wasn't at the Hanged Man, so that left the Blooming Rose. Just as I was headed in I was stopped by a couple of somewhat burly Antivan men. Heavy accents, dark skin, bizarrely courtly manners. They seemed to know exactly who I was and requested my assistance. They were trying to hunt down a supposed murderer. Some evil killer who they felt honor bound to pursue and bring to justice. After an extended flowery speech, they revealed that this terrible murderer was hiding among the Dalish. Since it was apparently known that I had dealings with the Dalish and could safely pass through their camp, they asked me to track down the killer where they could not follow. It sounded like the kind of thing I've done in the past, so I agreed. They gave me the name of one of the Dalish who was a friend of this heinous beast of a man and told me where they'd be camped outside of the city where I could come and claim my reward once I was done.

I abandoned looking for Isabela – I knew she was just avoiding me because she owed me 10 sovereigns from our game the night you left – and picked up Fenris, Varric, and Aveline and made the trip out to the Dalish camp. We all agreed it didn't make a lot of sense. Something was just… off. And when we spoke to Variel, the contact at the camp, it began to make even less sense. The horribly monstrous killer had told her to let anyone who came looking for him know exactly where he was because he didn't want to put the Dalish in harm's way to protect himself. No one on the run would give away their position like that unless they were trying very hard to lure someone into a trap or were simply unconcerned about who might come after them.

The caves were… generally what you'd expect - spiders, various skeletons that came to life since that seems to happen everywhere around Sundermount. There were enough traps in the place to stop a darkspawn horde so Varric and I spent A LOT of time disarming everything as we made our way through. But then there was a Varterral. I found out later from Merrill that Varterrals are more or less immortal, which explained why it was alive at all – you see I'd killed it once before at Marethari's request. It was a very savvy move to set up camp in that cave and I began to suspect that the man we were looking for may have been of Dalish origin. Varterrals aren't well known in the first place and their habits toward the Dalish are even less commonly known. They generally let the Dalish past, you see, and serve as protectors.

We had no sooner recovered our breath from the fight with the Varterral, temporarily killing it again, when this golden skinned blonde elf in somewhat skimpy armor came out and announced that he would surrender to us. He explained who he was and who the men looking for him were. I, of course, had no interest in turning him over.

I could see why some men and women would fall all over themselves for him. He is sort of… charmingly lecherous and full of pride. In our brief conversation he called me beautiful multiple times, claimed that I was known far and wide, hinted at some kinky bondage sort of things (tying him up and manhandling him), and did several suggestive eyebrow waggles at me. I did ask why he was just giving himself up and he told me that he knew when he was outmatched. I hate myself for it – but there was a swell of pride, I'll admit it. Now, granted, I also had 2 warriors and an incredibly deadly crossbowman with me. But in that moment, I had decided it was all me.

So we parted ways and I assumed that would be the end of it. When we got to the camp where the Crows had asked us to meet the true colors of their leader came out. "No one fails the Crows and lives", which I thought was rather rich considering that someone failing the crows and living was exactly why he'd asked for my help in the first place. I think Antiva bakes some of the sense out of their brains. And suddenly, there was Zevran again. He'd followed us and I hadn't noticed. So that part of the reputation does completely hold true – he's incredibly stealthy.

I asked him why he hadn't just left when he had the chance and he gave me this ridiculous response – "To see the Champion of Kirkwall in action! You couldn't keep me away!" sounding breathless and excited. He would fit right in with my particular group of companions here in Kirkwall with that kind of blithe attitude in the face of death. He also pulled off the most casual knife throw to the face I've ever seen. We killed the group of Crows and I wish they hadn't been an enemy I had to actually pay attention to because I would have liked to have seen more of his fighting.

Do you know anything about his current whereabouts? He said he had a "little war to fight back home." Oh – and he gave me a pretty fantastic dagger.

Varric must have caught Isabela up on the details of our day because she showed up at my house, owed sovereigns in hand, yelling loudly at me about the fact that I didn't bring her along. She didn't go into details but I suppose she also knew him. Who knew Thedas was so very small, hmm?

I know you're busy being diplomatic and noble, but write me when you can. I miss you already. And, hey, if you need any additional leverage with Celene you can always tell her that you could get her a very good deal on a great many corrupted mages. I'll gather them up myself if it means they won't be here anymore.

Yours covered in Varterral spit

Hawke

…

Alistair felt that his own personal world was suddenly too small. But he'd have given quite a lot to see Hawke and Zevran meet each other for the first time that way and suddenly become friendly. Zevran was more likely to thank someone with an invitation to his bed than he was to actually give them something – especially one of his weapons. So he must have been impressed. It didn't really surprise him in the least.

He folded up the letter, resigning himself to dressing for Celene and then coming back to the room to dress again for dinner. He hoped he wouldn't be too frustrated by the ridiculous nature of it all to write back that evening once he had a moment to himself.

…...

Hawke had just returned from the Bone Pit, flinging herself into the house and flopping down on a bench in the front room. It would be more accurate to say that she'd just returned from Ander's clinic after having spent the night there recovering from her injuries. She was exhausted and wanted nothing more than a long hot bath and a long, dreamless sleep.

After sitting there pouting for a while about how far away the tub and her room were she finally hefted herself up and through the sitting room. She didn't want to look at the desk but she did. She couldn't stop herself. And thankfully, amid the other notes was one with Alistair's seal. When she entered her room Orana was already pouring bucketful's of heated water into the tub for her, having heard Hawke come in and anticipating that she would want a bath. While Hawke was thankful, she also felt constant guilt about Orana.

She had started trying to teach Orana to read but she was still very much locked into her slave mentality and it was difficult to even convince her that she was allowed to. Fenris had taken to it immediately, learning much faster than she had anticipated. Orana was now getting lessons from both Hawke and Fenris since Fenris thought it might go easier if he took over that part. Orana wasn't necessarily afraid of humans – but she'd never had an elven master and she'd only ever had human ones. Having your entire world view flipped on its ear was not something one was likely to get over in just the course of a year or so. Besides, forcing himself to teach someone else how to read and write also gave Fenris more confidence in his own abilities and further reinforced for him that he was not a slave and did not need to live like one in any way.

Orana finished up as Hawke was pulling off the last pieces of her armor. The tiny elf bobbed into the room, gave a quick curtsey and left without another word. Taking the letter with her, Hawke slipped into the bathing chamber and stripped off her clothes. Orana had even dusted the water with herbs that would help release the tension in Hawke's shoulders and back. It was ridiculously thoughtful. She thought she might give her a raise. Though the girl had yet to actually purchase anything, it would still help her save up a nice fund for whenever she eventually felt like striking out on her own or even just wanted a home of her own to live in.

Sinking into the water to her chin, Hawke opened her letter.

…

Hawke –

Things here are going as well as I could expect, really. I was so exhausted after our first day here that I didn't get a chance to write right away as I'd wanted to. Orlais is… well… it's very Orlesian. I have no other way to describe it. Everything is crusted in gold foil and painted and filigreed and tufted and covered in silk. Everything that looks like it should be soft and sumptuous – even dainty little pillows laid in the corners of settees – is actually starched and sharp to keep everything looking perfect. I haven't seen a worn boot or a scuffed piece of armor the entire time I've been here and it just feels… wrong. I felt this way before about Orlais but somehow it's hitting me harder this time. This country is so rich overall, so much grandeur goes into its cathedrals and the palace and all the trappings of nobility and yet the poor souls in the Alienage starve, practically living on top of each other every day, heavily restricted in their movements about the city. And it's not just the Alienage – they're just the worst of it. Your average family in Orlais lives in squalor, especially once you step just a few streets away from the primary boulevard leading to the palace. The cutthroats and thieves who dwell in the shadows here are far more bloodthirsty and fearless than those I've encountered anywhere else. The supposed beauty of Val Royeaux covers a sick black heart.

And the perfume, Hawke. The perfume that these noblewomen and men splash on themselves never seems to leave me. Thankfully by the second day I was already so numb to it that I can't smell anything at all anymore, but that first evening at dinner was a constant struggle not to sneeze.

Celene has been putting me off, as I expected her to do. I think I'm supposed to feel antsy and nervous about it but I only feel bored with it all. It's exactly the type of political posturing that I've learned to anticipate and she's done it all perfectly. It's as if there is a haughty monarch's handbook that they share between Antiva and Orlais, comparing notes on how to treat those they deem their lesser. It would be funny if it weren't so sad.

Celene has ushered in this new era of cooperation across Thedas in strict counterpoint to the previous regime's "War First, Talk Later" mentality. However it's cooperation only in the sense that she's willing to kill you with a million words that go nowhere before considering launching her Chevaliers. I sometimes wonder what we could accomplish in Thedas if anyone was willing to simply talk to one another and make meaningful changes instead of this endless game of masquerades and dinners and complete and utter crap.

I just read over what I wrote and realized that I'm probably a little cranky today. Maybe. Perhaps.

Is it silly for a king to miss his own country so much? It will be summer in Ferelden soon. The grass will spring up, the fruit trees will blossom. The temperature will climb just enough to make you sweat in the sun. The unfortunate thing about this time of year is that it's not a season when nobles need to be at home so there is an influx of them seeking to petition the court for their pet causes or complain or call landsmeets or… any number of other incredibly annoying things.

Maker, I have no idea why I'm in such a mood today.

I have to say I was both full of trepidation about you being involved in anything having to do with the Crows and vaguely… contented? about your opinions of Zevran. He kept up that kind of banter constantly, no matter what the fight, the circumstances, the chances of survival. The only time I saw him truly grim-faced in battle was the day the archdemon fell. And that was because Solona left him at the gates and refused to allow him to come into the city. She was frightened that he would be hurt. I think he knew that she was going to sacrifice herself, though I have no idea if she actually told him that beforehand. Whatever my initial misgivings about Zevran – and there were many – he proved himself again and again. And he truly loved Solona. I would just say that the next time vaguely menacing Antivans approach you, just assume they're Crows. It's probably a safe bet.

If there truly is a way to separate Anders from his… passenger, I can understand you wanting to help in that. I've never heard of a potion being able to achieve such a thing, though I'm certainly no expert. In Templar training it was always stressed that once a mage joins with a spirit it is for life, there is no reversing the process. But we were also trained to accept being made into lyrium addicts so I can't put much stock in it. During the blight we were able to stop a demon's influence and possession of a child without harming the child himself. It's not really the same thing at all – the demon influenced him heavily from the fade, but was not in direct possession of his body. I know that more is possible than what the Templars are taught – I've witnessed it myself.

I will also send a message to Wynn in Denerim to ask her to investigate this potion as well with the information you've given me already. I imagine there is a fairly small number of ingredients for potions you can obtain in a sewer.

Speaking of which, I'll try out that "sewers smell" thing in Orlais at one of these dinners I'm being forced to. I've already fielded roughly 30 questions asking, in very roundabout ways, just how much like dog Ferelden actually smells. I'm sure bringing another area of potential smell expertise to the table will be a great joy for them.

I've also seen a great many women wearing dresses very similar to that one that you own – but none of them look half as beautiful in theirs as you do in yours. I miss you a great deal. You make me feel at ease and… normal. I can't tell you what a comfort it is to just be able to talk to someone freely and have them trust me with the same. While I find Orlais annoying at the best of times, I think it was probably a mistake on my part heading here directly after seeing you. The contrast is just too much. It makes every strained bit of diplomacy all the more frustrating.

If at all possible I would like for you to really consider at least visiting Ferelden even if you can't truly plan a trip at the moment. I have this silly fantasy about getting back to the palace and finding you already there, knocking about in the courtyard with Noodle or haggling the shirt off a merchant's back in the market.

Yours in a frilly shirt

Alistair

…..

Hawke sighed and dropped her head back against the edge of the tub. She didn't want to be in Kirkwall anymore and she wouldn't be if not for Fenris, Varric, and Aveline. Isabela was only here for the moment – she could leave at any time. Merrill was still more often than not annoyed at Hawke for not helping her with her mirror. And Anders… well…

Anders' behavior around this whole potion thing had been so odd. She had similar unsureness about these ingredients he was gathering. Maybe she'd see if she could find more information about it. How she'd do that, she wasn't sure. There weren't exactly a great many mages in the city willing to have open discussions with anyone regarding demonic possession. She also didn't think that Templars truly had enough training in the magical arts to know. Perhaps Solivitus? She'd talk to Varric about it – maybe he'd have some idea of who she could quiz.

Her bath water had begun to take on a chill so she reluctantly rose and dried off, throwing on a shift and heading for bed. It took her quite a while to fall asleep, imagining herself in the courtyard of the palace in Denerim, playing with Noodle. Imagining herself having a home there in the capital, not on the outskirts, not in hiding. Imagining being there in spring for the flowers and the grass and the warm, brief rains that added mist to the morning air. So when she did finally sleep, it was with a smile.


	20. Chapter 20

Celene waited until Alistair's last scheduled day in Orlais to actually deign to have an audience with him. While it was annoying, Alistair knew that annoying him was precisely what she was trying to. So, just to be a pain about it, he was practically whistling with apparent good cheer when he was summoned. He'd dealt with her only a few times in the past and had always been too easily put off balance. Those lessons were now behind him, however, with several sessions of the yearly landsmeet under his belt to better prepare him for any sort of nonsense the nobility, even foreign nobility, decided to try their hand at. This sort of meeting is one that Eamon had worked tirelessly to avoid having happen at all in the first year of his rule. And Alistair, assuming Eamon was right about what a disaster it would be, had been equally as afraid of them as Eamon. Things had changed, however. Alistair no longer faced dragons, fought hordes of creatures, scaled mountains in plate armor, etc. Now what he did was find ways to put accomplished politicians on their heels. And he'd become rather good at it, especially since he always managed to make it look accidental. Retaining his reputation as untested and possibly unworthy, he had managed to gain boons for Ferelden hand over fist in the last few years.

But this dragon – this particular archdemon of a nemesis – well, he wasn't sure how he'd come out of this one.

After the usual round of platitudes and posturing, tea being served, asking after the state of Ferelden, answering his questions about the state of Orlais, and so on, she got finally got directly to the point. It was the one thing he had found in the past that he appreciated about her – once she had gotten past all the expected vamping she was refreshingly direct. And, he thought, that that must be part of her charm as a whole. The rumors of her beauty were – to put it politely – a little exaggerated. She wasn't unattractive at all, but under all the cosmetics and the finery, she was rather plain. Her intelligence, her poise, and her ability to charm just about anyone with her aimed flirtatiousness made up the largest portion of her appeal. Alistair had encountered far more beautiful women at the Denerim market, hanging up homespun wares and haggling passersby to at least stop and take a look.

The upshot of Celene's eventual explanation for her summoning him there was that she was not happy about the contracts for grain being parceled out to other countries. But she also conceded that there had not been an exclusivity clause in the contract. She conceded also that she had assumed, incorrectly, that concessions made under Cailan's rule would have carried over to any new rulers and that they hadn't been due to the state of Ferelden and its blight. Alistar disabused her of that notion – clearly stating that, if Cailan had made promises to her, that it was unfortunate, but that he would not uphold contracts that had been in word only, no matter who those words had been exchanged between.

After taking a moment to consider his words, and it truly was just a moment as she sipped at her dainty little tea cup, pinky held aloft, she pronounced that she had a solution to all of their troubles. They would be married.

Alistair felt a surge of pride for himself when he realized he hadn't coughed, spluttered, gone beat red, or immediately come back with a snide joke. Instead, he took another sip of his tea – flowery, perfumey, awful tea that seemed to have no actual tea in it at all – and tried to appear as if he were truly considering this proposition. When he didn't immediately respond, Celene continued to press her case but there just seemed to be something off about it. It wasn't really like her to explain herself.

"If not me, then one of the higher stationed ladies at court. I have more than a few sisters who would be suitable as well as extremely strong ties to several of the major noble houses with marriageable women. I am sure a suitable candidate can be procured." Her tone was light and airy, but he'd seen Celene angle for something she wanted before. And this was… different. She smiled and leaned in and fluttered her eyelashes in all the right ways but there was something about the performance that was stilted. Her heart was not in this and if her heart was not in this then he was sure that this had not been her idea – for in Celene's mind only her own ideas were worth any measure of true showmanship.

In fact, the more Celene spoke, the more he saw the hand of Eamon in the proceeding. This was exactly the sort of pat, simple solution he'd have proposed. It was a very antiquated way of looking at things. Alistair was a man, Celene was a woman, so marrying them would make both their countries secure. What Eamon must have conveniently forgotten, however, is that Alistair saw those letters between Celene and Cailan – the familiarity, the warmth. Even if that had been affection born from shared goals and a bid to solidify power, it was far more real than the paltry display she was putting on here. Knowing that her heart was not in a partnership through marriage just bolstered Alistair's confidence in the plan he and Teagan had already cooked up.

"Empress, I appreciate the thought and wisdom that has gone in to your plan. While it is certainly an attractive offer, I've another idea that would leave both of us free to pursue alliances that can be won _only_ through means of marriage – I know that we both have our share of those. Why waste that opportunity when you and I can come to an arrangement that benefits both our countries without having to join our houses?"

Celene looked intrigued and, if Alistair was any judge, a little relieved. "I am, of course, willing to listen to any and all ideas you may have, Your Majesty."

Alistair began to lay out his plan, one of a militaristic union between Orlais and Ferelden. Orlais's primary strength was in its Chevaliers and the might of its horse bloodlines. Ferelden, on the other hand excelled at guerrilla warfare tactics, fighting across a huge range of terrain and conditions with an adaptability that had clearly been an issue for the Chevalier fighting from horseback during the rebellion. In addition, the mabari had been a huge boon for Ferelden in previous land wars as a single mabari can easily overtake a rider and his horse, incapacitating them both.

He proposed that Orlais provide a parcel of horses to Ferelden and perhaps a small contingent of Chevalier willing to train a portion of the King's guard in their fighting tactics. In exchange, Ferelden would provide a few generations of mabari, their handlers, and men to teach the Orlesians how to better defend and fight ground wars. In this way, the relative merits and weaknesses of each of their armies would balance out to some extent, giving each nation a stronger reason to save off the ever present cries for war that came from both sides.

In addition to this, since it was a mutually beneficial exchange and clearly did not outweigh the losses Orlais would suffer through the loss of some of the grain contracts, imports from Orlais into Highever, Denerim, and Amaranthine would be taxed at a fraction of their current rate for a period of 10 years, to be ironclad no matter who was currently acting as king and only renegotiated by either side at the end of ten years. This would allow Orlesian merchants high profits on goods shipped through those ports and balance out to a far more lucrative deal than the grain contracts would have ever given them.

The import tax was really the main point of their plan, what they knew Celene would go for. But Alistair had been struck by the idea of bolstering Ferelden's economy with a new industry – horses. While mabari were unlikely to be embraced by Orlais they had to offer them something in kind. They had fearsome fighters, but they tended to be knights on horseback who would not take to the all-out death style of a mabari pack riding with them.

Celene barely had to think it over. It was clearly a better contract than they'd had before and her country would benefit greatly from this new arrangement. She agreed to the import tax and agreed to shipping the horses and accepting the mabari, but refused the Chevalier to train them or the ground force training from Ferelden. They would allow only the mabari handlers within the country for a short period of time for them to trade off their knowledge. Which was fine with Alistair, he honestly hadn't had the men to spare and really just wanted the horses. They could develop their own fighting tactics without the help of the Orlesians – of that he was sure.

Once the meeting was over, Celene stated she would send out contracts to be approved before they departed Val Royeaux. She even smiled at one point and it was a real smile. Alistair felt a flush of victory.

The contracts were gone over multiple times before the exact wording could be agreed upon, but it went rather smoothly as these things go and he had to silently thank Solona for forcing him into those endless negotiations in Orzammar. No one builds a contract like a dwarf and he'd learned a great deal from his time around the sneaky little buggers. He was able to head out to the ship earlier than expected. Teagan had that beaming look of pride about him the rest of the day, satisfied that Alistair had come up with a solution that didn't involve things he felt were wrong and had had the ability to come up with a mutually beneficial solution that didn't leave Ferelden in the lurch.

….

After a week at sea, they made port in Highever and Alistair was greeted by a runner with a letter from Hawke almost immediately after he settled into his suite. Elissa Cousland had brought Highever back to a thriving Tyrnin and the whole town and keep felt refreshed. She's been thrilled to hear about the import tax since Highever would greatly benefit from it. While the tax was lower, there would be more goods moving through their port overall which would balance out the difference in volume. She was also very pleased to hear about the horses. She had several very strong lines of Ferelden chargers there at Highever and was eager about the prospect of cross breeding actual Orlesian horseflesh into those already incredibly hearty breeds.

Elissa did not stand on ceremony, knowing how tired they would be from their trip. She put off a dinner until the next night and had meals delivered to their rooms. She was also gracious enough to house his entire guard spread between the free beds in the barracks and the servant's quarters. Few Teryns would agree to something like that and she did it without it even being asked. Truly Alistair's favorite noble.

He'd had several conversations with Teagan that were more guarded than usual. He was trying to keep his cards close to his chest, but he knew beyond a doubt that Eamon had been corresponding with Celene. Some of her turns of phrase in her proposal of an alliance through marriage were nearly identical to words spoken by Eamon. He had thought that it was possible that Eamon had only been parroting Celene, but the quickness with which she abandonded the strategy and accepted an alternative made it clear to Alistair that it was the other way around. Eamon still saw Alistair as he was during the blight – unsure, easily swayed, a boy really. He was in his 4th year as king, he'd brought stability and hope to his people in the aftermath of the blight and he'd done the vast majority of it completely through his own work and will. Seeing Eamon still playing politics with his life and assuming that he knew better than Alistair left him quietly enraged. Would the man never see that Alistair was a man, a king, who had proven his own worth time and again without need for interference or guidance? He had not been a boy living in the stables for many years. He was still stewing over it still when he opened the letter from Hawke.

…

Alistair –

The last two weeks have been… interesting. I'm going to start with good news because I need a break from dwelling on the rest of it.

That bizarre merry chase that was set up for my uncle turned out to be a long lost daughter he didn't know about. He'd been married and his daughter, Charade, set up this entire escapade as some sort of… test? It's amazing enough to me that any woman who wasn't being paid for it put up with Gamlen for any length of time. That she apparently also laid with him at least once – well… wonders never cease.

I convinced Charade to go and see him, just talk to him. And I also lied and said that he really wasn't such a bad guy, that he had his good points. And she actually took my advice. They seemed to get along well enough for estranged family and Charade was more than eager to talk to me about well… everything. She was suddenly hungry for information about my life and what I've done and where I've lived and wanted to know if all the stories were true about me. I assured her they are not. She apparently heard somewhere that I was sleeping with Aveline. Aveline did not see the humor in that, but I assure you that everyone else did. Varric especially.

She's sweet – she actually reminds me in an odd way of Bethanny, but if Bethanny had more of an … edge to her. She also knows how to handle a bow and thankfully does not look like a female version of Gamlen in any way at all. She's visited several times but hasn't really gotten used to the fact that there is an enormous beast of a dog in the house so I try to meet her out instead. It's had the positive effect of getting me out of the house for reasons that don't require armor or weapons. Not that I leave the house without weapons – for this I just don't strictly _require_ them as a condition of leaving. You'd like her, I think. And I certainly like her. It's… strange to discover family I never knew I had all of a sudden. I'm sure it's stranger for Gamlen, but maybe this is something he needs. It would be good for him to have someone to care about again since I'm the only one left and I certainly don't fall into the "Caring" space for him.

So that was the good news, obviously.

We went to the Bone Pit because Anders needed Drakestone. I had no idea what it was but he was sure he could get it there. This is another part of his mysterious potion that I'm helping him with.

As we approached, it became clear that the main portion of the mine was abandoned. Again. Things were on fire, there were bodies. Men who've been partially in my employ for a few years now – men I've talked to on many occasions, bought ale for, haggled for better wages for. They were just scattered about, massacred. We identified as many as we could and Varric has helped me to track down all the families in their current locations. We'll put together funerals for them since I'm sure most of the families couldn't afford them – Sebastian is assisting with that. Unfortunately some of the men were just… beyond the point of being identified. We've moved them to a mass grave site.

We began to sweep the place to see if we could figure out what caused the destruction. We weren't far into the lower level with it reared its head. Not a dragonling, not a drake – a full sized female dragon – the mother we'd failed to find before. It made Flemeth in her dragon form look a little puny.

It was a terrible fight that we had not really been prepared for. Fenris and I seemed to take turns getting picked up in the thing's mouth and thrashed around before being flung into a wall – like it just couldn't decide which of us to kill first.

You'll have to give Donal my apologies. I now have dragon tooth scars.

You've fought dragons. You know what it's like. It felt like the thing would never just lay down and die but as we all neared exhaustion it finally began a slow collapse, the long accumulation of the wounds we'd managed to inflict finally taking their toll. It couldn't have happened any later as we would not have had the strength to continue the fight. Fenris was as injured as I had been and had resorted to trying to use his other arm for his sword as his main arm was dangling uselessly at his side, Varric was unconscious by the end of it, having taken a tail swipe to the chest that sent him flying. It was a nightmare. Fenris and I managed to pull it together enough to deliver a killing blow, with both of us holding his greatsword aloft to bring it down through its brain. But had it not already been severely weakened, I doubt that we'd have gotten that lucky.

The only upside is that we were able to get some dragonscale off the corpse and I am thinking of having some armor commissioned.

Despite the fact that Anders had to drop multiple lyrium potions down his throat until he was twitching and pale, he managed to heal us all up enough that we could walk out of the main pit. And because I refused to make a second trip out there we also went after this ingredient for him. It turns out that Drakestone is more or less fledgling dragon droppings. So I ran through caves, killing things so that he could pick up dragon excrement. And he said the most ridiculous thing to me as we were leaving – he thanked me for helping him and then said "I wouldn't ask just anyone to go in there for me." So apparently it's only a special kind of person he asks to help him gather various forms of waste matter.

I spent the night at the clinic that night because I took the worst of the damage apparently. Even after they've healed I'm sure that my ribs will never be the same again. Fenris was definitely as bad off as I was or worse (he has a habit of acting as if he is made of iron, jumping in front of me to deflect blows despite the fact that he fights without a shield). But he flatly refused to stay in Anders's presence any longer than necessary, only agreeing to be tended to in the first place when I begged him. I tried to get Anders to talk to me about how he left the Grey Wardens but he just kept dodging the question no matter how many different ways I asked. Apparently my powers of persuasion don't work on possessed mages.

The next day I dragged myself home and slept most of the day after a bath and reading your letter, which put me in a much better mood, I might add, despite your intense grumpiness. I think Orlesian finery just has that effect on most Fereldens. There are several titled Orlesians in Kirkwall who have cajoled me into dinner parties or "small gatherings" that turned out to be rather obnoxious full scale balls. Their homes are ostentatiously decorated in much the style you described and I will admit to feeling similarly perturbed at having to look at it all night.

And then, there was Fenris's meeting with his sister. That happened today. Even thinking about it I go back and forth between quaking in rage and feeling a sense of accomplishment. But it's mostly rage.

Varania was there in the Hanged Man as she was meant to be. And Fenris seemed to remember her the moment he saw her. His face was so… open and soft. He had a memory of them as children, playing together. It was incredibly sweet to see him so unguarded like that out in public, amongst other people. But then the sick reality of the situation came crashing in – Danarius was there as well. Variana had been a lure for Fenris and she'd been there as a willing conspirator.

Danarius was every bit the disgusting, smug, arrogant, vile man Fenris had painted him as. He kept insisting Fenris call him "master" and referring to him as his property. When I spoke up and told him that Fenris was a free man he referred to me as Fenris's "new mistress". He also knew exactly who I was and… Alistair, what if Fenris being around me caused this? What if I drew too much attention to him and made it easier for Danarius to find him? It worked out eventually but… Maker I can't stand the thought that I put him in harm's way simply by being too stupid to keep myself out of danger.

Unsurprisingly, a fight ensued. Danarius actually thought I'd just… hand Fenris over. Like I'd found someone's stray cat or something and would turn it over to the rightful owner for a reward. Being a magister and adept at a wide array of heinous magics, he summoned what I've come to think of as the "usual array" of demons, shades, and skeletons to join in the fight once we'd dispatched the slavers he'd brought with him. It seems I haven't seen a mage outside of Anders who hasn't fallen back to blood magic in a fight since Bethanny died. It's enough to make me start seriously considering that Fenris might be right. Maybe Bethanny and my father were the last of the non-corrupt mages in the world.

It was not a simple battle. Typically with mages, I try to get close and disable them quickly but getting near him felt like having the very life sucked out of me. I had to jump in with short bursts and then step away to regain my breath and clear my head. It was only later that I realized that the red mist that covered my face from time to time wasn't something magical – it was my blood, weakening me and feeding him. It took forever, but eventually we wore him down and he exhausted himself. I have no idea how to describe how Fenris killed him. He picked the man up in the air by the neck, there was a sick crunching wet sound, and then he let him drop to the floor dead. It was almost too clean a death for him, too fast and over too quickly. That was a man who deserved to suffer for all the things he'd done to Fenris and countless other slaves over the course of his life.

And then there was Varania. It turned out that she was a mage. And to be a successful mage in Minrathous means getting noticed and accepted by a powerful magister. So Varania decided to lure Fenris out into the open, knowing that Danarius would want him back. She used that as her bargaining tool to get accepted as his apprentice. She more or less blamed Fenris for not being around to help her, saying that he had no idea what she and their mother had to do in order to "survive".

Then, she turned to me and asked me to make him stop, as if she believed that I was indeed his "mistress" and could somehow control his actions.

I told her the truth – that this decision was Fenris's and that I would not interfere. But I also told him that I've killed a family member and that I wouldn't wish that on anyone. That he needn't have that same kind of pain.

He let her go in the end, but I would have stood by him had he decided to kill her. I assured him that his friends were here for him, that we would not abandon him, I would not abandon him. He gave me the saddest look, Alistair. It absolutely broke my heart to see him like that and to know what he's been through only to have his own family do that to him. I can't imagine the sort of pain he's going through.

I left him off at his mansion – it was a quiet walk. I let him be for the evening, but reminded him before I left him at the door that he was a free man. He had no master; no one would ever hunt him again. He just nodded at me. It's probably going to be awhile before he's closer to okay.

Yours in uncomfortable reunions

Hawke

…

Alistair immediately pulled out parchment to begin penning a reply but found himself pacing instead. He wasn't sure at all what he could say about any of it.

Instead of writing a response to her immediately he sent out an array of other letters. To Wynne, to Warden Commander Caron in Amaranthine, and another set once again to Leliana and Zevran. He needed a few people he could trust implicitly right now. He was sure that they'd be invaluable in the months to come. Given that Zevran was now already acquainted with Hawke, it would be that much easier to get his consent in helping Alistair keep tabs on her life.

It felt awful and sneaky to think of it that way… but that's what he was doing. He was building his own network of contacts around Hawke that would be his eyes and ears while he attempted to get on with the business of ruling a country. He wished he could simply go there in person, be there and see everything himself – but he knew it was foolish to tease himself with such desires. He was no longer that man. As much as he might mourn the loss of the person he was, he also knew without a doubt that he was where he needed to be, doing what he needed to do. He'd long since put aside childish and romantic notions of simply running away in the night. He was the king of Ferelden. He had a responsibility to the country and to every one of its people, down to the lowest fishmonger at the docks and the poorest indentured servant in the fields.

But he also had a responsibility to himself, one he would no longer squander.

….

_Shorter chapter today. I'm pulling together the next and will likely post it in the next day or two. I've been woefully ill the last week so. Given how hard it's been to string together simple thoughts, I thought it prudent to hold off on trying to make sense of this story at all as I edit it. I'll make up for it! _


	21. Chapter 21

Hawke had been running around the city hunting blood mages, uncovering plots, and playing (completely willing) errand girl for Cullen for weeks. Even she knew that she was being a little unhinged about it all, especially considering her own misgivings about her chosen tasks. She felt compelled to help Cullen in any way that she could – he just seemed so honest and reasonable – but she was plagued constantly by guilt. What would her father have said? What would Bethany of have said? Pushing herself to exhaustion all day and night lead only to falling into bed and being kept awake by the dreams of her father's sad face looking at her with every ounce of disapproval he could muster.

But even the guilt was a welcome distraction from the accumulation of worries, and wrongs she'd been building up. A day didn't pass when she didn't think of her family, of Seamus, of Viscount Dumar… even those Qunari men bound and cut down in front of her by that weasel spit of a Templar haunted her. She should have been able to save them, all of them. But she didn't even get close.

Even before Kirkwall she was no stranger to death. She'd narrowly avoided it and been the cause of it often enough before she'd even joined the freeman's army with Carver. But then there had been a reason, a cause, a goal. Since landing in Kirkwall the blood got harder to wash off, the expressions on the faces of those she cut down were harder to purge from her mind. So much of what she'd done felt random, pointless. She'd been stumbling blindly against the tide for the last several years and more and more she found herself wanting to just lie down in it and be taken elsewhere.

So when what had promised to be a day full of action outside of Kirkwall was proposed – a group of active slavers that they'd been hunting for months who had finally slipped up and made it obvious where they'd be camping – she'd jumped at the chance. Not that she exactly turned down many jobs these days – but rarely had she felt any sense of excitement over the prospect of completing them. Not lately.

But as her knees continued to protest her crouched position in the brush along the Wounded Coast and her mind began wandering over all her accumulated woes she was feeling smacked full in the face with the contents of her own mind. Lack of moment gave her time to think. And thinking was the last thing she wanted just then.

Scowling over at Varric, who seemed not to care at all that they'd been lying in wait for hours on end, Hawke started to understand the situation. Varric, who groused and kicked at the dirt and got particularly sarcastic when he was forced to wait for anything. Varric, the man who once cut in line ahead of a pregnant woman at a pie stand in Lowtown because he overheard her tell her son that she wasn't sure if she wanted a mincemeat pie or a lamb pie and he determined that her moment of prevarication would hold him up. That ridiculously impatient dwarf was sitting on a rock, blithely polishing Bianca's stock as if he had all the time in the world. She put the pieces of it all together.

She held her tongue until the sun began its last descent over the mountains and turned the sky red, watching as Varric, the man practically allergic to anything involving cookery, produced a bundle of herbs from his pack for the rabbit Sebastian had thoughtfully caught for their evening meal.

"You seem especially unconcerned about this, Varric."

"Ah, well, what are you going to do? You can't count on slavers to be prompt."

"And you're not upset at all that you've clearly gotten ridiculously poor information?"

Shrugging, Varric gave her his best placating smile "I'll look into it Hawke, don't you worry about that. But getting mad about it isn't going to make them show up any faster."

When Fenris produced bedrolls that had been helpfully stored in a bolthole near their location, she realized that they'd all been plotting this thing. Not just Varric, but all three of them had conspired. They'd even done it on a portion of the Wounded Coast that Varric knew she favored for its particularly interesting outcroppings of rocks and the way the sea crashed against them, throwing spray into the air at high tide and devolving into little tidal pools worn into the stone.

It was thoughtful and kind of them. It was also sneaky and controlling and underhanded. And while Sebastian's soothing little songs in his native tongue made it difficult to keep her annoyance at its fullest, it still took a stomach full of Sebastian's rather exceptional cooking and a staring content with Fenris where his expression finally broke into what she understood was worry before she decided she would forgive them for their meddling.

Lulled to sleep that night by the waves and the salt air, she knew they were right though none of them spoke a single word about their little plot. She needed this. And her chest hurt to think of them coming up with this plan to benefit her for no other reason than she simply needed someone for once to stop and take care of her. The fact that they had to trick her into it was nothing but her own fault. She was too stubborn by half and they all knew it. She'd told each and every one of them that there was no shame in needing help – that even the strongest person needed bolstering. And she truly believed that – for everyone else.

Maybe she could get through all this if she simply took some of her own advice. And it wouldn't hurt for her to really let herself believe that she hadn't lost her family – she'd simply traded one for another.

….

Hawke felt especially buoyant on the day they returned from the coast. It drove home to her just how miserable she had been – Alistair's visit had been one of the few brief respites from it all. While it had been wonderful having him visit, it simply wasn't enough to go on forever.

It had been several days since she'd last seen Anders. While she wasn't exactly counting the hours, she also knew that she needed to keep a closer watch on him and find out more about this potion that had her on edge, even if it meant steeling herself for the encounter. She wasn't really scared of him – that would be the wrong assumption to make. It was more accurate to say that she was sure now more than ever that she was dealing with a wounded animal. He needed help, he needed relief, but he was half-mad with pain and didn't know how to be human anymore.

So, feeling a little bit invincible, a little bit like her old self, she headed off to Darktown on her own once she parted ways with Sebastian and Fenris near her estate. She was sure Fenris would yell at her for it later as she couldn't seem to stop telling him all the stupid things she'd done, but she'd long since lost the (completely justified) fear of the place. It was foolish, she was sure, but she also knew that she'd had quite a bit of luck being foolish in the past, so why should she change things now?

Anders was hunched over a makeshift desk at the back of the clinic, scribbling away furiously at something with his quill. From Hawke's angle it looked like the quill was liable to snap from strain at any moment and that he was in danger of tearing right through his parchment. His manifesto, no doubt, every iteration of which became more and more rambling, less cohesive, and far less likely to sway anyone at all to his opinions.

"Hello, Anders."

He startled and jumped up out of his chair at the sound of her voice, eyes darting quickly around the room as if he'd just woken up here, looking disoriented. "Hawke… I… I'm surprised to see you."

"Probably as surprised as I am to be seen, Anders. How are you doing?"

His response was immediate and defensive "I'm fine, why? Is there some reason I shouldn't be?"

Hawke plastered her best friendly smile on her face and tried to relax her shoulders down from where they'd begun to tense, the flight or fight instincts kicking in from his harried expression and vaguely wild eyes.

"Of course not – not that I know of anyway – I've just been away from the city for a few days and thought that I'd come see how you were."

His expression conveyed that he clearly did not believe her.

"If it makes you feel any better I was also going to go check on Aveline and Isabela next – you were simply my first stop. You know me… making the rounds and all."

He nodded just slightly "Right." He shuffled his papers together on the desk, not bothering to sand the fresh ink, which would just cause it to smear. Abruptly, Anders' head jerked up as if something had just occurred to him "Actually, I'd been wanting to speak to you anyway. I … I have another favor to ask you."

Hawke chuckled a little and leaned against one of the tables, crossing her arms and her ankles. "More sewers to plunder for malodorous magical ingredients? I'm flattered."

Anders shot her a strained and obviously disingenuous smile "No, no more of that. I have all the ingredients I need. I just need you to distract someone for me."

"Something like last time?" The last time Anders had asked her to distract someone it had been an informant who was making a great deal of coin selling out the locations of apostates to the Templars. Hawke bumped into the man and kept him occupied while Anders and a few others from the Mage Collective hustled a small group of hiding apostates away from the area the informant was poking around. Hawke had helped the Templars quite a lot and if they came themselves looking for someone who had made themselves known through their own lack of care or actions – she would rarely stand in their way. But paid informants were one of the many reasons her family had moved so often in Ferelden and she held no love for them.

Anders hesitated a moment "You could say it's related, yes."

"Alright – so who am I distracting?" Hawke pulled herself up on the table and let her feet dangle back and forth as she leaned back on her hands. She was sure she looked far more relaxed than she actually felt and that was exactly the point.

Anders moved around his desk and came to stand in front of her, stopped just an inch or two in front of her knees, forcing her to stop swinging her feet lest she kick him. Were she to sit up, she'd be practically nose to nose with him, a degree of proximity that she disliked immensely. "I need you to distract the Grand Cleric in the Chantry."

All casualness fled from her then and she narrowed her eyes at him as she replied, oozing sarcasm. "Really? Going to leave a bouquet for her? I hardly took you for the secret admirer type, Anders."

Anders' face tensed and his hands formed into fists "Do not joke with me about this. I would not ask if it wasn't necessary. I need you to simply say that you will help or leave. There is no in between."

Hawke did sit up then, sliding off the table and forcing him just the tiniest bit back. She had to look up at him now to continue looking into his eyes. There were a few scant inches apart and she could actually feel the heat from his body, as if he were feverish. It took a force of will not to recoil from it. "So you want me to distract the Grand Cleric – someone I know you dislike immensely – so that you can do… something… in the Chantry – a place you revile." She paused and let that sink in for a moment, not truly expecting him to respond since it wasn't truly a question. He crossed his arms up over his chest defiantly and continued to glare down at her. "Between the last time we spoke and today, was I victim of a head injury that no one told me about? Or have you simply mistaken me for a complete blithering idiot?"

He huffed at her then and began pacing back and forth. "If you choose not to help me, simply say so. But do not assume that I am a fool for asking this. You have claimed since the moment I met you that you wanted to help mages, that you saw the sense in correcting the ills of the chantry. Despite the fact that you regularly completely willingly assist the blighted Templars in corralling mages, I have continued to take you at your word. But there can no longer be half measures, Hawke. You can no longer play both sides of this. You are either on my side in helping the mages or you are an enemy, to be gotten around or through."

Hawke raised her eyebrows at that. She had known for some time that that's how he felt, but he'd never had the sheer audacity or courage to say it out loud.

He stopped his pacing and turned toward her, tapping her chest with a finger "What I must do is more important than you, more important than all of us." His finger continued to jab away into her chest, harder with each punctuation, as his voice rose in fervency. While her first instinct was to simply grab and break that finger for daring to touch her, she let it go, wanting to see just how far he was willing to push this. She felt both wary of seeing him take this too far and almost… eager to have him finally give her an ultimate reason to simply end this ongoing charade of friendship. "I have allowed my feelings to stifle what must be done for far too long and I will not allow it to continue."

Her voice was quiet, cold, as she responded. "It seems to me, Anders, that your _feelings_ have been allowed to run wild and that is precisely why you seem to think that… whatever it is that you're planning… is your only recourse. There is always another way – you simply have to choose to see it."

He abruptly rushed forward then, pressing her against the table, hands tight on her upper arms, fingertips digging into her flesh and nearly bending her over onto her back. Her left hand grabbed the table top to prevent herself from being pushed over, her right hand gripped the hilt of the dagger strapped to her thigh.

"What do you know about my feelings? You've all but ignored them and me for years. You joke and cajole and flirt and then nothing. You draw out my affections only to let them whither, forgotten. You have done nothing by toy with me since the day I met you." His face was twisted in anguish as he yelled, spraying her with spittle. A blue light began to swim in his eyes and his grip on her arms tightened. "And finally when I need something from you, you refuse me. You are an infuriating selfish bitch who has never cared for me, so spare me your false level headed tone and concern. I know them for the lies they are."

Injecting her voice with steel that she did not truly possess at the moment, Hawke narrowed her eyes at him. "Anders, take a moment to look at the position you are in and then tell me that your feelings haven't gotten the better of you and foolishly so. If you were any other man your bowels would be dangling around your ankles. Think hard about what your next move will be."

Anders blinked dumbly back at her a few times before abruptly releasing her and pacing away to the far side of the room, running his hand over his face. She moved swiftly away from the table, into a clearer space where she wouldn't be as easily cornered again and waited a moment to see if anything else would be forthcoming.

"I've never been anything but honest with you, Anders. Honest and forthright whether you liked it or not. I need you to return that favor now and if you cannot or will not I will leave and you will never see me again."

Hawke waited and dared walking a few steps closer where he stood, back to her, shoulders hunched.

"The sela petrae, the drakestone – what are they for? Is there a potion? Is there a way to separate you and Justice?"

The silence of the room dragged on and on. He didn't change positions or give any indication at all that he'd heard her. But Hawke refused to allow him to squirm out of this. She needed to know.

His voice was quite when he finally responded. "There is no potion. There is no way to separate Justice from myself."

She wasn't surprised, but it still hurt more than she'd expected to hear it said so plainly. She'd actually hoped there had been – had probably been more eager for it than she'd really been willing to admit to herself. It would have been at least one terrible thing that she'd be capable of helping to fix.

"Is this the only thing you've lied to me about?"

His answer was quicker this time. "No."

Hawke thought about that for a moment. "Anders – what is the primary difference between a Fade Spirit and a Demon?"

He seemed startled by the question, turning around finally and looking at her. "You want a lesson on the dangers of the fade now?"

"Answer my question."

He sighed, shook his head, but took a breath and answered her. "A fade spirit does not desire to influence mankind. It may watch and be interested, but does not seek to take control or manipulate the world on this side of the veil. A demon constantly seeks to take control, to influence, to gain entrance."

"And beyond what they do, there is no actual difference between them, right? A spirit of hope is the distillation of that virtue. A demon of pride is the distillation of that emotion. They are not fundamentally made any differently."

Anders furrowed his brows, "Yes, I suppose that's true – but what is your point? It does not change the fact that you do not trust me enough to help me."

"And why should I trust an abomination, Anders? Why should I trust someone who has chosen to join with a demon?"

Anders' eyes flared blue and the blue crackle of Justice's powers moved along his skin, his voice quaking with Justice's lower timbre "Justice is no demon."

Refusing to be cowed, no matter how wobbly being in the presence of the thing made her feel, Hawke stepped closer, her hand never leaving her dagger. "Justice made a choice to inhabit your body, make your cause his cause, and influence the world. By your own definition… what does that make him?"

The light continued to flicker through Anders' eyes, roiling there like blue fire, but he did not speak or move. He stood there as if in some sort of trance and Hawke dreaded whatever internal battle must be raging on within him.

When she found her voice again, it was quiet. "I will not help you with whatever it is you're planning and neither will I sit idly by while someone I once cared about destroys himself and those around him. If it means making the two of us enemies, then so be it, Anders."

Hawke backed away from him then, refusing to turn her back on him. No matter how much it looked like he was catatonic, those blue lights moving along his skin meant that Justice was agitated and liable to strike out. More than ever Hawke was sure that Anders had little control over himself. He was far too dangerous a mage to linger around.

If it were any other mage before her in this state, she'd have already slit their throat. It was only her pity and shared history that stayed her hand for now.

As soon as the door to his clinic was shut between them, Hawke turned and sprinted away, up the nearest set of stairs toward the surface, desperate for air and sunlight and distance.

….

Alistair was absolutely swamped with work, not having taken a break at all since he entered his study just after dawn. The sun was now beginning to wane, the light shifting into the pinks and purples of dusk around him as his steward bustled around the room lighting candles and angling reflectors without uttering a word. He was in a black mood as he scribbled off correspondence and set up meetings, muttering only the most perfunctory of instructions as he handed off messages to the never ending parade of couriers, messengers, and various guardsmen being used to run missives for him when all his current couriers were already away on a task.

He hadn't woken well in the first place, getting little sleep on one of those rare nights where his appetite for rest was outstripped by his mind working over the problems handed to him the previous day. One of the first letters he'd received that morning had set him off completely, underscored the Eamon's ceaseless lurking and the ridiculous minor nobles who somehow believed that if they simply showed up and demanded an audience that it should of course be granted.

Commander Caron, Arl of Amaranthine, was an enormous ass. Alistair knew that, of course – he'd always thought that the man was unyielding, hard, and worked more toward his own secretive goals than anything else. He didn't think the man's plots were sinister in any way, simply that he took the secretiveness of the Grey Wardens a bit too much to heart. He supposed it must be a strange transition to make, from high ranking Grey Warden to Commander in a country that was not your home in addition to being handed a title and a role in politics at the same time. Despite that, there was no reason at all for the Grey Wardens to elect a man for the position who was so unwilling to entertain anything that wasn't his own idea. Having a Warden hold a position of power outside of the order could only be a boon for them – why they had chosen Caron for the position, then, was completely baffling to Alistair.

He'd written to the Commander asking about Anders. He simply wanted to know more about the circumstances under which he'd left Amaranthine. It wasn't strange for Wardens to break off and travel abroad, but it was typically under orders. Since Anders considered himself an ex-Warden, he had to assume that some incident had occurred.

Caron's response was blunt to the point of being rude, telling Alistair in no uncertain terms that anything involving the Wardens was outside his purview and therefore off limits. He then snidely suggested that Alistair confine himself to asking about the number of sheep in the fields or the prices for cloth in the marketplace as these were some of the few topics he had any business knowing about. Caron, obviously, was of the mind that Alistair was a former Warden, a former junior Warden at that, and that he had not earned respect within the ranks of the order. If assisting in killing an Arch-demon wasn't worthy of respect in Caron's eyes he wasn't sure what would be. As much as he disliked the waves of ill thoughts toward Orlesians that came to mind as the only real explanation for the man's attitudes, he found it difficult to find any other sound reasoning for his behavior.

His mood was only further confounded by Wynne's lack of answers. It was no fault of her own, truly. But getting her to finally break away from the circle to visit him personally had taken far longer than he liked. And then to have her show up on the day only to tell him she had no real answers was… well it was disappointing and he found it hard not to blame her in the moment, no matter how unfair that was. In many ways he still thought of Wynne as the end-all-be-all of motherly, mage-related advice and counsel. To have her show up and shrug at him about sela petrae and this fade spirit and even the state of the Chantry felt like his view of her as a person changed along with it. She was supposed to know things, have answers, and deliver them all in her vaguely chiding tone.

One of his couriers returned with a new stack of correspondence, a delivery that had just come in from the docks. That at least reduced the chance that it involved any of the banns or minor landholders within Ferelden. Spring brought them to the city in droves where they took the time to complain and cajole about every miniscule thing they could dream up, as if they were simply trying to make the trip worth it. He was well aware that that's exactly what they were doing, but it was the most trying time of year for him and he'd already begun to lose his patience for it.

Among the letters was one from Hawke – though rather thin by her usual standards. After sorting the other correspondence into housekeeping notes and things he actually had to respond to, he finally stood and stretched, realizing just what kind of toll sitting hunched over his desk for ten hours had taken on his back and his hips. Rolling his head on his neck to work out the kinks, he suddenly felt unaccountably old and let his shoulders slump forward in a dramatic little show of defeat.

He took the letter from Hawke with him as he ducked out of his study and headed to the kitchens, reading as he went.

…

Alistair –

Anders lied to me and has been for awhile. What all about, I can't say – but he definitely lied about this potion. He played my sympathies to get the assistance he needed and would have continued to do so, except… well I'm not sure what happened. But it seems to me that the part of Anders that wanted to string me along was fighting with the part of him – or Justice – that wanted to crow about how clever he was for lying to me.

He asked me to help him distract the Grand Cleric.

He and I did not part on good terms.

Tired of being lead around by the nose, I took some initiative on my own. I talked to a formari mage here who I sometimes gather ingredients for – Solivitus. He's the only formari who interacts with the public I've ever met who isn't tranquil. As such, he is in somewhat of a precarious position and is very careful about who he deals with and exactly what he says. Despite that, and despite not wanting to get him into any trouble, I needed to have more information about these ingredients I'd gathered for this potion that doesn't exist.

I invented a story about finding a chest in a cave along the Wounded Coast which contained many common ingredients for potions and poisons alike but that there were two that I'd been unfamiliar with. I even went so far as to pretend to not quite remember the name Sela Petrae and played a guessing game with him until he figured it out. He explained the many uses of that particular compound – a great many of which *are* potion related – which is disgusting given its origins. Then I mentioned the drakestone and he, once again, rattled off some things it might be used for. He stopped himself however, seeming to remember something suddenly. He told me, rather urgently, that I should never combine the Sela Petrae and the Drakestone – that they were never to be mixed together in any potion or concoction.

I assured him that I was not a potion maker at all and was simply curious about the items I'd been unfamiliar with, hinting that I was looking for some new poison components. He seemed relieved.

His discomfort about the ingredients in addition to Anders' desire to get into the Chantry suddenly is… well I don't like it. And I don't like enough to the point where I'm going to do something about it. Whatever was left of my friendship with Anders is torn now. He's a storm building up speed. I see that now.

Another wrinkle in the mess that is Kirkwall is that the Grand Cleric has asked that Sebastian and I go speak to an envoy of the Divine. She's more or less hiding here in the city, apparently spying on the situation here in order to inform the Divine of what she feels the situation is. Elthina is scared that the Divine is preparing an Exalted March against Kirkwall and she wants me and Sebastian to somehow… convince this woman that it isn't necessary. We'll be going tomorrow night to the Viscount's throne room which has been sealed since the fight with the Arishok. I have no idea what to expect and am once again completely aghast that I've been pulled into these plots and schemes on both sides of this issue.

When I became the arbiter of right and wrong for mages and their relationship with the Chantry I'll never know. I don't even care about the blighted mages outside of the fact that my father and sister were mages and I can all too easily picture them shoved into some tower, chased by Templars, having the brand put to them. But my sympathy these days, Alistair, is stretched very thin.

Yours walking carefully

Hawke

…

Alistair hadn't even noticed, but he'd stopped walking scant feet from his study, not having actually walked at all once he started reading.

Her tone was so… stony. Barely a joke in the whole thing. It wasn't really like her. But then, he didn't suppose he had much experience with her as she felt right then. Maybe this was exactly what she was like when feeling betrayed.

And even beyond that – an Exalted March? He'd have to talk to Teagan about that. Teagan – not Eamon. Eamon still hadn't been dealt with about Orlais and his obvious meddling. Alistair had simply said "We'll speak when I am ready to speak to you" to his Chancellor upon his arrival and Eamon had wisely made himself scarce since then.

He folded up the letter. Hawke was doing something about Anders. He didn't like the sound of that at all and there was nothing he could do about it. There had been moments like this one before – moments when he wished briefly that he and Hawke did not have this correspondence – that he didn't know of the things she was doing and going through. Every time he found himself wanting to help and every time the distance yawed in front him, mocking.

…

_I appreciate the well wishes (feeling better now) and the kind reviews as always. This chapter didn't want to come together so it was a few more days than expected. _


	22. Chapter 22

Sebastian was surprised to find Hawke in the Chantry. It was even more surprising to see her kneeling at a pew, looking like a penitent – well, looking like a penitent would if they were fully armed and armored. It was such a strange image that at first he was unsure if he even wanted to interrupt her to announce himself. She'd sent a sister off looking for him, so he knew she was here for him but he'd never seen her pray. She asked Elthina for a blessing once, but had even told him afterward with a smirk and a shrug that it "couldn't hurt, right". While Leandra had been quite devout, his impression had always been that she was the sole member of the Hawke family who could make the claim. And no wonder, really, with two apostates in their number. He'd also had to struggle over the last year or so not to take it personally. It was foolish, of course, but he'd come to feel that her disdain for Chantry attendance was a reflection on him. He was her friend, ostensibly, and if not her friend then at least a sometime companion. If anyone should be able to show her the side of the Chantry that she could approve of, it should be him. But he'd failed in that – miserably so. Given the sides of the Chantry she was already well aware of and their own experiences with the likes of Mother Petrice while in Kirkwall, managing to show Hawke the joy and light of the Maker was truly a burden he should not take upon himself.

But often, he felt he had little else to offer. He wanted to give her something, anything, that counted as comfort. Especially in the last few months he'd seen her wither more and more. She was less likely to joke, slower to smile, and her humor when it did appear tended to take on a bitter cast that had never been her way before. He knew they had many disagreements – but the fact that she never hid that from him and would both debate him furiously and stand by his side without a moment of hesitation when she was needed had endeared her to him.

More than once Sebastian had wondered how things might have been different between them had they met in different circumstances. Before he was a man of the Chantry, he'd have been completely smitten by her. He'd have probably made an utter fool of himself pursuing her with every trick that had ever worked on a barmaid or farm girl and fail miserably in the process. She would laugh at his attempts and his former self would have simply taken that as a challenge. And while she still challenged him in many ways, he was glad that it was as a friend and not as a nameless conquest. She mattered far more this way and he only hoped that the feeling was mutual.

Eventually he walked forward and stood at the end of the row of pews where she knelt and waited, hands folded before him and eyes cast toward the center of the room, to the statue of Andraste that towered over them.

"You know you're not the first representative of the Chantry to wander by looking concerned at seeing me here." Her voice was quiet and she sounded tired. "But you're certainly the most welcome."

He smiled at that and waited for her to rise and make her way over to him.

"Sister Beatrice said you were looking for me. What can I help you with, Hawke?"

"Is there anywhere we can speak that doesn't… echo… so much?" She grinned at him slightly. They'd talked before about the fact that the Chantry in Kirkwall was built for grandeur but the slightest noise travelled through the place, bouncing off the many hard surfaces. It was enough of an issue that at some point heavy curtains had been installed inside the confessionals, likely once it was noted that anyone's whispered misdeeds could be clearly heard halfway across the hall without even straining.

Sebastian lead the way to a small storage room where they'd spoken before often enough that he'd simply left a small lamp in the corner. Hawke waited until the lamp was lit and then quietly closed the door, settling on the edge of a crate and crossing her arms across her chest. Sebastian knew the look on her face. She was going to ask his assistance with something that she was struggling with herself. He'd seen that look enough to know that it meant that whatever it was she needed help with, she was asking at least partially because she needed the emotional assistance as much as the physical. Lately he'd been with her more and more often as they hunted apostates for the Templars. He knew it had nothing to do with his skills with a bow and everything to do with his constancy. Something he was sure Elthina would find ironic were he ever to share information about Hawke with her.

"I know that we'll be going to the Viscount's throne room to meet with the representative of the Divine tonight. What I need from you won't interfere with that."

"Whatever you need me for, Hawke. I assume you'll be asking others along as well?"

Her eyes darted down to her toes as she shook her head. "No, just you."

Sebastian felt his brow furrow. He wasn't really sure what to say to that and the way in which she said it.

"Perhaps you can tell me what you'd like me to do?" He said this gently. He felt ill at ease about how unsure she seemed.

Hawke let out a long breath that wasn't quite a sigh, but instead of relaxing, her arms bunched around her even more, as if she were hugging herself to get through her explanation.

"I need you to be a lookout for me in Darktown. We'll need you to dress in some different armor or at least be well covered by a cloak. You don't really need to do anything, simply alert me if anyone starts paying too much attention or looks as if they're about to dart off and alert someone."

Sebastian nodded "And this doesn't require more people? Darktown is hardly safe on the best of days."

"I can't bring Varric – he's providing a needed distraction. Fenris stands out far too much and everyone in Darktown knows he never goes down there by himself – he's always with me. And Isabela, well… frankly, she's not trustworthy. She could simply start running her mouth while in her cups and I can't risk that just now. Aveline causes a commotion no matter where she is and her being in Darktown at all is enough of an event that I can't have her with me. Besides, I think she is working this evening."

Sebastian took that in. Then, beginning to put things together, finally stepped closer to her and laid a hand on her arm. "And Merrill or Anders?"

Hawke shook her head "Merrill can't shut up and would ask too many question. Anders… is being distracted."

Sebastian nodded then. It's what he'd come to himself and needed no further prompting. If Hawke were taking action against Anders for any reason at all there had to be an extremely good reason for it – a reason that had left her feeling bereft enough to actually come to the Chantry and pray. He didn't need to ask what it was. It didn't matter in the end and he would do anything she asked of him. Some small part of him protested that he'd do anything at all she asked – even things he disagreed with – simply because it was her asking. But he shook that off. Now was not the time for those doubts.

"I think I have a cloak that will work well enough. I'll meet you at your estate?"

Hawke nodded then, still looking crumpled and folded in on herself. "We'll use the basement passage."

She stood then and Sebastian turned to blow out the lamp. As the room fell into darkness and before he could open the door, he felt Hawke's hands on his lower back, fingers curved around the sides of his waist and what could only be her forehead, pressed into the space between his shoulder blades. "Thank you for this, Sebastian. I… I wasn't sure anyone would understand."

Knowing she couldn't see it, he didn't bother to nod, but he couldn't think of what to say. He was saved from any awkward, fumbling attempt by the door opening and her swift retreat.

…

Varric had been holding court and playing cards with a mage who didn't want to be there, didn't want to talk, and definitely didn't want to actually relax for even a moment. The few hours he'd been engaged in this mysterious distraction had seemed to stretch on painfully. He thought for sure more than once that Anders would figure out he was just being delayed. But maybe he was giving the crazy mage too much credit.

Varric didn't like being kept in the dark and that's exactly how he was being kept. Hawke had simply asked him to get Anders out of his clinic and keep him out of it and out of Darktown entirely until she returned to the Hanged Man. At first, he didn't understand why she needed Anders out of the picture when she had only claimed to be going to the Viscount's Keep with Sebastian. And he'd begun to protest being used without a damned good reason, but he took a good look at her face. She wasn't charming him into this, cajoling him. She wasn't working some angle that he hadn't been let in on. She really needed to get into that clinic for some reason – a reason she couldn't share just yet. She had never asked him for something – asked any of them for anything, really. So he gave in.

After rounds of Diamonback that he even let the mage win here and there, multiple attempts at getting Anders to drink, and many fanciful tales about every manner of thing he could dream up – especially anything involving Ferelden to try to keep Anders involved – he'd eventually run out of steam. He was contemplating just knocking the mage over the head and dragging him up to his room when Hawke finally entered with Sebastian, both of them looking a little worried. Isabela cried out a greeting from the bar when she saw them and motioned them over, but the two simple made for a table in the corner, ordering drinks and leaning in toward each other, caught up in some intense and furtive debate.

Varric watched Anders' eyes when they saw Hawke. They went wide for a moment and then immediately clamped down, narrowed and steely. Just what in the Maker's blessed boudoir was going on with these two?

Anders kept up the pretense of playing another round of cards but the constant shifting of his eyes belied him. He looked up at Hawke again and again, watching her intently. The fact that she'd taken a seat away from them, that she hadn't acknowledged their presence at all, and that she was now nearly forehead to forehead with Sebastian all seemed to make him even more tense – something of a feat given how wound up Anders had seemed to be all night.

While Varric watched Anders watching Hawke, drinks showed up at her table and Varric noticed her hand shook as it darted out to snatch and toss back whatever had been in the short cup. Sebastian reached out and took her hand a moment, speaking to her as she nodded and let out a long breath.

Varric was startled by the quiet voice at his elbow and Anders nearly went to his feet – so tightly wound that he was jumping at everything.

"Pardon me, messere Anders, ser, but I come to tell you that someone was bustin up your clinic, ser."

The boy couldn't have been more than 10. He was scrawny, filthy, and pale, as if he hasn't stepped foot outside of the dank hole he lived in for years. And he likely hadn't.

Anders did stand then, screaming out "What?!" and storming off without actually bothering to wait for an answer to his question. Normally, Hawke would have followed him, but as Varric looked over at her, she was merely watching Anders leave over her shoulder. When she began to turn back around and her eyes caught Varric's, the careful neutrality of her face told him everything he needed to know about just what had happened that night. He sighed and signaled for another drink. He hoped that whatever this was, she knew what she was doing. She'd always been like a hurricane, but she kept those she knew, those she had reason to keep safe close to her in the relatively calm center. The winds may destroy everything in her path, but they were always there with her, watching and largely protected. It had never occurred to him that one of them would be cast out and into the storm someday. But apparently that day had come.

.…

Alistiar's work, which came in the form of never ending meetings and dinners in the last few weeks, had kept him so busy that he hadn't had the time to stop and think about the fact that he hadn't heard back from Hawke or that – more importantly – he hadn't written back to her. Normally it would have been his top priority. But something about her last message had felt so closed off that he wasn't sure that she'd truly want his interference. So he was waiting, he guessed. What for, he had no idea. And if he let himself dwell on it, he was sure he was simply being a coward. Her last message seemed to signal to him some great shift in the way things had been. Her tight knit circle of companions was unraveling in some way and that made him sure of where he himself fit.

His messages that morning were blessedly light, but he did have a message from Zevran in amongst them.

….

My Dear King –

I am happy to oblige in this sneaky business of yours and am humbled that you have asked this of me – I know how you feel about my particular talents. I have heard of the issues in Kirkwall but nothing so specific. You are sure your information is correct? No matter, I will find the truth of it regardless. Until more is known –

Z

…..

But nothing was there from Lelianna. That was a disappointment as he was sure she would have responded, probably before Zevran.

After a relatively small breakfast by his own standards, Alistair headed to his study, hoping to catch up on any other pressing matters before dealing with Eamon. He'd decided on a fairly benign route compared to the annoyed internal machinations he'd been sifting through since Orlais. Keeping Eamon close made the most sense at the moment and his brief talk with Elissa Cousland about the matter as he travelled through Highever on his way back from Orlais had played a large part in his decision to simply keep his cards close to his chest for now.

Eamon arrived and, after quickly apprising him of the situation with Orlais, which Alistair felt he could sum up with the word "handled", he passed over the copies of the contracts that would reside in the palace's vault. Eamon took his time appraising the deal and eventually looked up and simply locked his eyes with Alistair's. Alistiar knew this game. He would not budge first. It took longer than it did with anyone else who tried to pull this very tactic on him but Eamon eventually gave in. The stumbling, unsure king he'd been in his first year – who would have filled that empty space with waves of words that gave himself away in a million tiny ways – was long gone.

"This is a sound plan, Alistair. It's not at all what we'd discussed and not at all what Celene had stated her goals were. However, this is still a sound plan."

"I'm glad you agree, Eamon. I am also glad that your plan as fed to Celene did not go through as you'd hoped." Eamon began to protest this, but still looked completely at ease and unsurprised. Alistair forestalled him "I know that you meant well, uncle, but I'm afraid that you may have misinterpreted Celene's intentions. She was willing to go through with a marriage, sure, but she didn't want to. I don't even think she wanted to marry off anyone else to me either. She would have done it – but I'd rather keep her honestly content than only suffering through."

"I'm surprised, Alistair that you think this was my plan at all. Teagan of course informed me of Celene's proposition to you. I certainly think it was a sound one and one that you should have more carefully considered. But it certainly was not my plan."

Alistair leaned back in his chair "So is that how we're going to do this, Eamon? You're going to lie to my face about what we both know to be true? It's just the two of us here in this room; there is no one else to protect your pride in front of."

Eamon shook his head and actually smiled "You've gotten so bold so quickly Alistair. I'm surprised at you. And proud."

Alistair gave a toothy, but utterly false, smile "Thank you, uncle, I appreciate that you've finally taken a moment to notice. I have decided that I will have more of a hand in the day to day work to be done here. Nothing passes my desk without approval; nothing leaves the palace without my consent. That goes for everything, even housekeeping information, until I note otherwise. I need to know everything that's happening under my rule and using my name."

Eamon nodded a bit warily "of course, your Majesty."

"Also, I would like to bring in some new workers who will act as … well there's no good way to put it…. I would like to have some spies employed by the crown more officially."

Eamon nodded "of course, your Majesty. There are many already in my employ who may…"

"No, Eamon. You may keep yours – I expect even if I said otherwise that you would keep them. No, I want my own. I cannot trust this to anyone but people I specifically pick myself. I will have some suggestions worked up in the next week and I would like them employed somewhere within the daily household. I will work out a reporting schedule and matters of particular interest myself. I am only telling you as a courtesy."

"Very well, Alistair."

Alistair noted the shift in the use of his name and the very gruff reply from Eamon. He was clearly displeased but still far too controlled and tightly wound to just say so. The lack of openeness or honesty from Eamon had ever been an issue for Alistair. Even when he was a child he'd had a hard time understanding why Eamon had ever taken him in in the first place. He seemed to only tolerate Alistair at the best of times.

Shortly thereafter Eamon took his leave with the contracts and left Alistair in peace for the rest of the day to wrestle through the remaining correspondence. When his mind wandered, it invariably wandered toward Hawke and what might be happening in Kirkwall that kept her from writing. He'd received no word from Varric about Hawke or about the issues in the city in general. The silence from Kirkwall was suddenly defeaning and he couldn't help how on edge it made him feel. He would write her, make it clear somehow that he wanted to know what was happening, that nothing between them had changed.

….

Hawke knew she'd been purposefully sequestering herself in her home for the last several days – something she promised Fenris she wouldn't do again. But she hardly felt it was on the same level when she'd at least let people come in. The thing was – no one had tried. She couldn't blame them, but that didn't stop her from wondering if all of them just came to her when they needed or wanted something after all. It was a level of insecurity she hadn't felt in a long time and its return was not welcome.

After her foray into theft in Darktown, she'd taken the Sela Petrae and the Drakestone as well as several rather esoteric and non-standard tomes on magic to Orsino. He'd asked for her help with a delicate matter anyway, and she felt it only fair that he repay her by making sure that the ingredients and the instructions for whatever it was they were meant to do did not fall into the wrong hands. He was… startled… by the parcel she handed over, but was ultimately extremely thankful once she explained why she'd taken it. She was careful to never mention or even hint at who it was taken from. She trusted Orsino but only to an extent and she knew that mages backed into corners had many ways of lashing out – informing on possibly dangerous apostates was one of the simplest.

But then Merrill came to her asking for help and she, foolishly, agreed. Stopping one unhinged mage only to try to assist another was ridiculous even in to herself, but then, when had anything at all she'd been involved in made sense or been the right thing to do? She was sure that at some point she'd be judged and found as wanting as she felt.

Now, she found herself pacing relentlessly through the house. She was supposed to be getting ready for this expedition into the deep roads. Some random woman who lost contact with her brother – it was a tailor made distraction for her.

Hawke felt the loss of Mare'Thari deeper than she probably should have. She was only thankful she'd been able to get them out of the Dalish camp without the slaughter that they were clearly ready for. Hawke's trust and acceptance of Merrill was at an end. Even though she knew the elf needed her support now more than ever, she couldn't give it. Merrill was blinded by her ambition and others suffered for it. If Fenris hadn't been so horrified himself at what had happened he would have been gloating about how correct he'd been all along. Both of the mages in their company were no longer welcome as far as she was concerned. That, plus the overwhelming number of blood mages she encountered, the increasing lack of reticence she felt about assisting the Templars… it all lead her to wonder just where her conscience had lead her.

Inside of Hawke there was this well of sadness that was pushing ever closer to the surface. This thing that she'd just carried and tried to ignore that was making her hate things a little more every day. As Fenris threw off his cloak of rage, she picked up the scraps and made one for her own. It was a sad reversal of their demeanors but she didn't know how else she could continue to function without succumbing to it.

Something was going to break, and soon, and Hawke was determined that it would not be her. That was the only reason she took up the request to search for this lost Grey Warden in the deep roads. His sister had been in a frenzy of worry as she stopped Hawke in the street and that may have been what initially made her consider it. But she also knew that she wanted to go to confront that place where Bethanny had died. If her bones were still there she'd gather them for burning. If they weren't, perhaps it was the best place to mourn for her. It wasn't about closure, really, so much as it was about forcing herself to go into that ancient thaig again, proving that she was not broken and that she would not fall apart. It was trial by fire and she was thankful for it.

Once her packing for the trip was complete, she took to her desk to see what she should respond to before she left and what needed to be taken care of for Bodahn, Sandal, and Orana. She'd leave them coin for their wages as well as for household needs. She had some letters to send about deliveries and a few repairs that had to be made along one crumbling wall in a sub-basement. But really, Bodahn would be here so he'd be a better person to handle all of that. His contacts in the Dwarven Merchant's Guild meant that they'd probably get better craftsmanship out of it as well if it was left up to him.

Amongst the letters she found one from Alistair as well as one with the King's seal as opposed to Alistair's private seal. She read Alistair's first.

….

Hawke –

I'm back in Denerim and have been for a few weeks. I apologize for not having written sooner, it's simply been incredibly busy here and I haven't taken the time to so much as breath let alone let myself the enjoyment of writing to you. The meetings in Orlais went much better than expected, actually, and I was able to broker a mutually beneficial arrangement with Celene that has left her quite pleased and potentially brings new industries to Ferelden. I think Eamon will also be pleased at the outcome and this new alliance we have forged. Eventually. Things didn't go quite to his own plans – but I reserve the right to do what I think is best for the country, no matter how off putting it may be to my uncle.

I'm having every contact I have access to looking into the Divine as well as this agent. One of my companions in the Blight went to serve with the Divine and hopefully she may be able to provide some insight. I can't count on her giving me too much information, however. She counts me a friend, but her allegiance is not with me first. I've also tried to reach out to Zevran because he does not have those same issues with gathering information. I've given Varric some ideas on where to send runners as well and hopefully we can come up with something more substantial very soon.

I feel that our correspondence has dropped off of late and I admit that I miss it greatly. Please write when you find the opportunity. Any small note at all about how you are doing would be most welcome.

Yours late for a state dinner

Alistair

…

The second letter, bearing the king's seal was opened next.

…

Champion of Kirkwall, Marian Hawke, Scion of the Amell Family –

I write to you today on behalf of King Alistair Therien of Ferelden. I hope this letter finds you well.

Your service to Kirkwall as well as your rise through the ranks of Kirkwall society has been impressive to your homeland of Ferelden. It is with pride that our people speak of you and your deeds while living as a refugee and I am sure His Majesty would agree that you have brought nothing but honor to your family name as well as your country of origin.

It is therefore regretful that I must inform you of the potential breech in protocol an ongoing correspondence with his Majesty presents. As you are an unmarried woman of note, and his Majesty is recently betrothed, it would be inappropriate for you to continue to correspond with him. While his Majesty has been grateful for the distraction you've been able to provide from his duties, I am sure that you understand why this cannot continue.

I am sure that the intricacies of court and politics in this matter may be completely unfamiliar to you as one who has only recently regained your family's titles. Take heart in knowing that the court in Ferelden does not cast blame for this breech in protocol at your feet and understand that this inappropriate relationship was, most likely, due only to ignorance.

If you are ever in Ferelden, the court would welcome your presence as an honored guest.

With Fondest Wishes For Your Well Being and Success –

Eamon Guerrin

Chancellor to His Royal Majesty, King Alistair Theirin and Arl of Redcliffe

….

Hawke sat dumbfounded. At first she was sure this must be a joke. She looked over the seal again to ensure it wasn't just a forgery. But it looked real enough. Then she reread the letter. Who would send her something like this if not the Chancellor? She looked back and forth between the personal letter from Alistair and the official letter from Eamon, rereading portions of each.

Betrothed? Was that the "alliance" that would please Eamon?

My ignorance of court matters? As Chancellor, Eamon was the voice of the crown. Therefore if this was real, then the king had washed his hands of her. Claiming to miss her in one letter and casting her aside in another. Just what was this game?

Hawke was suddenly furious. At who or what she couldn't be sure, but there was a rage building in her, that smoldering discontent of the last few weeks finally sparking into something with a name and a direction. But she had to be sure.

Gathering up the letters and her packs for the trip, she barely got through her instructions to Bodahn, distracted and angry and trying not to take it out on him. With Noodle at her heels she headed off to The Hanged Man. She needed to speak to Varric about this before she did anything rash and the others joining her on this rescue trip should be gathering there soon anyway.

Varric was at the bar, talking a few of the regulars, no doubt regaling them with one of his stories about something when she entered. She caught his eye and his smile drooped just slightly at seeing her. She had a scowl on her face that she hadn't bothered to hide as she stalked through the streets. She was beyond caring at the moment, too angry to put on her usual façade of benign good cheer. Jerking her head toward his room, she wordlessly made her way through the largely empty bar and threw down her packs as soon as she entered, digging out the letters just as Varric closed the door behind her.

"I need you to read something for me, Varric."

"Someone sending you Dwarven love notes again, Hawke? You know how they make me blush."

But Hawke didn't rise to the joke, she just shoved the letters at him, Alistair's on top. Varric wisely began to read. Hawke was obviously in a mood that he didn't want to compound or be put in the path of, really.

After getting through the first letter he sighed "Sounds like things are settling with Orlais. That's good to know, given all the talk about war I've been picking up."

"Read the next one Varric. This isn't about Orlais."

Varric obliged, his eyes going wide as they went over the text. And Hawke watched as he did the same thing she had done – checking the seal carefully for forgery, looking between Alistair's letter and the letter from Eamon repeatedly. He eventually looked up at her, clearly confused.

"This doesn't make sense, Hawke. The seals are genuine."

"That's what I thought but I wanted a second opinion."

Varric sighed "This still doesn't make sense. He didn't strike me as the shifty type or someone to send out signals this mixed. Is it possible that there has just been some mistake?"

Hawke slammed her fist down on the table "What mistake could there be, Varric? Eamon clearly knew who he was writing to. And BETROTHAL – And ALLIANCE – and… "Hawke's anger began to waver and dissolve into something different and her voice quavered "I'm a FOOL - A complete and utter fool, Varric. He's a king; I'm a refugee and a mercenary. Of course he'd realize that even sending me letters was playing with fire eventually. Any of his political rivals would love to have this sort of ammunition against him. This is just reality coming back into play."

Varric moved over to his friend, placing a hand on her shoulder "I … I don't know what to say, Hawke. There might be an explanation for all this, we can't know for sure."

Angry hot tears were streaking down her face "There is an explanation, Varric. I'm an idiot who is forever breaking myself even when others can't."

Varric pulled her against his chest and rubbed her back while she cried out her anger. Seeing Hawke cry unnerved him almost as much as it pulled at every protective instinct he had. He didn't say anything else, but he was going to have that king's royal bits in a vise for this. Bianca was too good for him; he'd get the pinchers and the branding irons. It didn't matter that this was obvious just the last straw and that this utterly out of character display wasn't really about Alistair. He knew that there was probably more going on with the king than Hawke was saying – more than she was probably even aware of, really. He'd hoped that maybe they'd both come to their senses and he could write something nice for a change about romance and love. Instead, she was a sobbing mess and she more than likely had no idea why this even bothered her so much.

Suddenly Hawke pulled back, scrubbing at her face with the heels of her hands, sniffing and composing herself. "Can I borrow some parchment and a runner? I don't want to use your men for this, the runner just needs to get this on a ship, usual post to Ferelden."

"Sure thing Hawke"

Letter composed and put into the hand of a messenger, Hawke's rage had subsided into something black and twisted, no longer burning. She added this new grief to the pile, determined that, though he was not here to see her cry, she would not shed another tear over this. He had made no promises to her. This feeling of betrayal was her own doing, based on her own false hope that there might be a bright spot, something beyond the stifling life of Kirkwall and all the pain it brought. Thinking of his hopeful look when asking if she'd ever consider coming to Ferelden to stay, his grins and laughs and compliments – it left her cold. The king was the king and that was that. He had no part in her life and she had no part in his. If anything, things had just gone back to normal and that was enough.

As Fenris and Isabela made their way into the room, she was composed, no hint of tears, no hint of turmoil. While she didn't bother to fake a smile, she felt put together and calm.

They headed out to the closest entrance into the Deep Roads that would put them within a good distance to the Thaig. She didn't really want to go back down there with Varric and Fenris – it was far too similar to the last time. But she didn't really trust anyone else and they were all three of them familiar with their destination. It would have to do. And killing darkspawn would have to suffice as a means of venting off her grief.

…..

_I know it took longer than usual to put out this update, but I'm hoping I'm closer to a more frequent update schedule again. I have a job that takes up 60+ hours a week and usually at odd times for long hours. When I started this story I was in a work lull and therefore had plenty of time. But now that things are picking back up, well, who can say. _

_I'm also half rewriting things that I had already strung together – so it's a lot of double checking across multiple chapters to fluidly fix the things I've re-plotted. I'm trying to keep it about the quality and I hope that that shows and that my characterizations are still accurate and interesting._


	23. Chapter 23

Alistair had tried to go back to focusing on affairs of state, but once he'd forced himself to stop and really think about Hawke long enough to sit and write her a letter, the shift back to his daily life was proving difficult. Even during the blight he'd never been driven to distraction the way he was now – even when he had every reason to be distracted by certain of his companions. It was humbling to realize that his focus could be so split, that his mind could be so fractured. It was a lesson for him, really, something to keep in mind about his role as king and how he managed it.

Alistair had managed to hire on two new serving girls from the Alienage after a bracing conversation with Shianni, the new Harhen of the Denerim Alienage. Alistair had only vaguely met the previous Hahren during the blight, but Shianni – she'd screamed and yelled and fired off insults and then rallied the elves to fight with them to repel the darkspawn overtaking the city. She'd been instrumental in clearing that part of the city with the least loss of life and had personally put the final arrow into the face of one of the darkspawn generals commanding that portion of the horde. Alistair found her vaguely terrifying and only consoled himself with the fact that she seemed to be on his side.

Shianni had suggested the two women herself. Both were extremely loyal to the king, their father having been among the elves being crated and shipped off to Tevinter by Howe and Loghain's men. Apparently saving a family member earned you a lifetime of loyalty from elves – something Shianni told the king he needed to keep in mind, given just how many of their number had been kept alive both before and after the siege of Denerim thanks to the wardens and their companions, and how many had flourished because of Alistair's rule since he took up the crown. If he wanted his own personal elven army, Shianni intimated that he need only ask.

The two women were never personally met by the king – they were carefully put on a list with all the other candidates for the open positions and hired by the head maid and head cook respectively. For all intents and purposes, they were servants just like any other with one additional duty – they gathered information for the king, reporting their findings to Shianni who could more easily directly speak with him and cause fewer suspicions. Their first directive was to find out which of the other staff were spies for other nobles and their positions in the palace. He couldn't help but feel that Zevran would be proud of how he'd managed it all.

He had just finished taking out his aggression and impatience on a training dummy yet again - they were going through them rather quickly these days – before bathing and redressing when he spotted a new letter on his desk. There, FINALLY, was a message from Hawke. Shirt still hanging open, breeches untied he ripped into it immediately and was left stunned by the brevity of the note.

….

Your Majesty –

The agent of the Divine was your friend Lelianna. The Divine is asking the Grand Cleric to take refuge in Orlais. Our group is headed into the deep roads to fetch a wayward Warden. None of them will be available to do your bidding for roughly a month. I tell you this out of courtesy. One of us should have some.

If you ever choose to speak to me again, do it yourself or don't bother.

Champion of Kirkwall

…

Alistair felt like he'd been stabbed in the chest. What had he done that deserved this sort of response? He tried to think over his last letter and what he'd said. There was nothing there that should have caused this kind of ire. Had he overstepped somehow?

It was only belatedly that he saw that there was another letter included. This one addressed to Hawke. It was from Eamon and reading it made Alistair's blood boil. Hitching together his breeches and shirt as he went, he flew out of his own suite and stalked toward Eamon's set of rooms. The door flung wide as he pushed through it, causing it to slam back against the wall, startling all those inside. Alistair barely took note of who was there before bellowing "OUT. NOW."

There was a brief stunned pause and everyone in the room began to stream out around him while Eamon stood up at his desk "What is the meaning of this, Your Majesty? We were in the middle of a…"

"You will sit and you will listen, Eamon. You will not speak." Alistair's voice was calm, level, deadly serious and Eamon complied immediately. He paused only to stare at Isolde, gone pale and clutching her hands together in what Alistair had come to think of as her now usual befuddled, penitent, quavering way. "You will leave or I will escort you out myself, Isolde."

"You will address her as Lady – " Eamon began, disdainful and haughty

"I will address her as the person disobeying the king's orders if she doesn't LEAVE IMMEDIATELY." His yell chased her out of the room, the woman nearly whimpering in fright.

Alistair slammed the door shut just as roughly as he had opened it, barely letting her skirts clear the doorway. He walked slowly and deliberately over to Eamon's desk and slammed the letter down on it, rattling the ink bottles and scattering papers.

"You have overstepped yourself, Eamon. You have made pronouncements in my name that assumed far too much of the events and far too little of me. It is one thing to put your political plots into Celene's ear and hope for your desired outcome. It is altogether another thing to assume that your machinations would come to fruition and then seek to destroy my friendships behind my back."

Alistair did not move from his position while he spoke, leaning over Eamon, bringing to bear the full implied threat of his height and the breadth of his shoulders. Every muscle in his body was taught with rage. His voice remained low, controlled and cool.

"You are skating dangerously close to what I would define as treasonous behavior."

Alistair paused to let that sink in. Treason was ever the thing that nobles feared being accused of. It was one of the few crimes that needed little in the way of proof. And Eamon had to know that proof was something that Alistair didn't lack in his case. The fact that it had never been raised before only underscored Eamon's power in the court, and the fact that it was raised now made a mockery of that power.

"You may have thought Cailan a fool to be toyed with. You obviously think the same of me. But I warn you, Eamon Guerrin, you will disabuse yourself of that notion and swiftly or you will face far more than just my personal wrath. It was only by the grace of Elissa Cousland's council that you were not escorted back to Redcliffe upon my return to Denerim for the way you have already interfered in matters of state regarding Orlais. And it is only because I choose to _tolerate_ your presence for the moment that you are not having your personal items packed for you as we speak. Your entire existence here in this position has been hanging by a thread for quite a while and that thread is swiftly fraying. If you overestimate your own importance or my esteem for you once again you will lose far more than you ever thought possible."

Alistair stood to his full height now, glaring down at Eamon. "And if you have caused a rift that I cannot repair – if you have interceded and damaged yet another of my small handful of friendships, I will never find it in myself to forgive you for it. Never."

Eamon looked like a man facing his own hanging noose. And Alistair was only sorry that he was still too angry to fully enjoy it.

He turned and left the room, leaving the door hanging open as he left.

Alistair stalked immediately back to his rooms, watching servants and guards flee in front of him and duck out of the way. He'd never even raised his voice before in the palace. He was pleased that this was the reason that had finally caused it to happen.

After slugging down a belt of whiskey and taking a few deep breaths, he pulled out a stack of parchment and began trying to repair what Eamon may have already irrevocably destroyed.

…

Nathaniel Howe had not been what Hawke had expected. Granted, her experience with Grey Wardens was limited to two and another only in passing, but she still found herself slightly off balance when finally catching up to him. He was of a good height, but not especially tall. He had a build similar to Sebastian's and the use of a bow seemed to explain that. He had a rather dark look to his face with his long hair and soul patch, as if scowling and scorn would be natural there. But he also didn't seem like an especially hateful man – at least as far as Hawke could tell. Frustrated, perhaps. Especially with his current situation. He was actually very attractive, if a little strong featured. His face could easily have been sharp or unpleasant were it not for his large dark eyes. It was a little like Fenris, actually. All of Nathaniel's emotions were in his eyes. And they were kind eyes.

Isabela, on the other hand, was not off balance at all. She was right on her game. And Nathaniel made a crucial mistake in not immediately batting back her first cheeky remark. He actually laughed at it. Hawke knew that that was all it would take. She saw the look on Isabela's face, the blatant sense of encouragement there. It wouldn't matter when, it wouldn't matter how. But it would happen. Isabela had already decided.

Thankfully, Nathaniel was a skilled archer who was also adept at switching out of the role and slashing out with daggers as needed. It saved his own life on multiple occasions and even Hawke's in one case. The trip to find him had taken roughly a week and a half. The fight through the tunnels toward an exit took another two days. Hawke was determined to head back to the place where Bethanny had been left and, while she knew it was the long way, she explained to Nathaniel that she had a very personal reason for coming back down there and it was the price she demanded for coming at all. Put that way, he didn't even balk or scowl. He just nodded and asked her to lead the way. It was a week in getting to the spot. She had taken point in the scouting, with Fenris and Isabela hanging in the middle between Varric as the front archer and Nathaniel in the back.

When she approached the bridge that she knew was where they'd left Bethanny everything else fell away while she searched. Varric slowed his pace as he recognized where they were, holding up the group to give her distance and just shaking his head at the questioning look Nathaniel gave him. They hovered a distance away, half across the span of the bridge. After a few moments where Hawke was out of view they saw her approach again.

"I need a … blanket or … something." She could barely be heard above the omnipresent gurgle of the lava channels.

Fenris was the first to move, dropping his pack down and digging through until he came up with a thin blanket which he handed over.

Isabela didn't understand anything that was going on and finally tired of being left in the dark.

"Are you going to scare the darkspawn away like a spooky ghost? What's the blanket for?"

Varric had put up a hand to forestall her, but she'd ignored it. Now Isabela was greeted with 3 sets of blank eyes.

Hawke answered before Varric or Fenris could come up with some way to word a response that wouldn't upset Hawke. "Her bones. I need to move them to the lava."

Isabela's eyes went wide. "Oh, Maker, Hawke I'm … I'm sorry."

Varric looked back at Hawke and asked as gently as possible, "How can you be sure, Hawke? There are bones everywhere down here."

In lieu of an answer, Hawke held up Bethanny's kerchief, the one she'd been wearing - now stained and blackened with blood and rot with only one corner still showing the red.

Varric just nodded.

Hawke started to walk away but then stopped and half turned. "I… I could use some help. They," her voice hitched "some of them are… scattered. I want to get as many as possible."

Varric and Fenris moved forward first, followed by Nathaniel who still didn't really know what was going on but he also knew better than to leave a group in the Deep roads. Isabela lingered slightly behind, obviously not eager to set sight on what remained of Bethanny.

The body was largely intact, but parts had indeed been scattered. An arm and a leg had been pulled away and shattered, perhaps underfoot, perhaps when used as a weapon. A femur a few feet away, hand and foot bones scattered here and there like pebbles. Hawke laid out the blanket nearby and was able to move the majority of the body at once, tattered bits of clothing and dried skin holding the bulk of it together – the heat and lack of humidity having done its work to mummify what hadn't rotted. Bethanny's long black tresses were still intact but dull and dirty now, attached to the shrunken skin of her skull which had to be moved separately. Fenris and Varric both knelt at the edges of the area, carefully picking up smaller bones with one hand and placing them into their cupped hands. Isabela stood at the edges, not guarding, not watching. She'd gone pale and was having a hard time even standing there without turning bodily away.

Nathaniel leaned over to her and whispered "Who?"

Isabela started at being spoken to, obviously lost in some private swirl of thought. She whispered back "Her sister. She was tainted and Hawke… took care of it."

Nathaniel looked back at the group of them, carefully gathering every minute piece they could find and placing it reverently on the blanket. After a moment he came to a decision, strapped his bow onto his back and knelt among them, gathering what pieces he could find and adding them to the blanket. The four of them thoroughly scoured the area, ensuring that nothing was left behind. Without speaking, each of them took up a corner of the blanket and carried it like a litter down the remaining steps and down one of the corridors, stopping in an area that had a clear path right up to the edge of the lava flowing there and lowering it carefully back down to the ground.

Hawke knelt, head bowed. No one could tell if she was composing herself or praying or just… waiting. And no one was going to interrupt. She finally spoke, voice thick with tears. "This is a piss poor excuse for a pyre, but I came back for you, Beth. I'm sorry that it took so long, but I didn't forget. I will never forget. You can rest now. I hope you're with them. I hope that there is peace for all of you."

Hawke stood and gathered the ends of the blanket together. Varric moved to help but she just shook her head without looking at him. As Hawke moved forward to lower the blanket into the lava, Fenris stepped up and hooked a hand into her belt in the back, putting the other on her shoulder, anchoring her. Hawke leaned outward and slowly lowered the bundle down, watching it scorch and blacken in the glowing churn momentarily before it dissipated as if nothing had ever been there.

Fenris tugged her back slightly when she stayed there, hovering out over the channel of lava for longer than he liked and she followed him, heading back to where their packs were, picking up hers and continuing on their way out of the Deep Roads without another word or backward glance. She didn't speak again until they emerged into the night air two days later and began making camp.

They were all glad to be out of the Deep Roads but none of them were overly eager to push the pace too much now that they were actually outside again. Setting up a few lean-tos to shelter under in groups and building a fire, it was clear that everyone was just waiting for Hawke to speak or cry or … do anything really outside of move with those dull eyes and stony expression. Eventually, while feeding the fire and settling in next to it, she announced that everyone could stop looking at her like that, that she wasn't going to fall apart. They all pretended that they hadn't been but there was a noticeable change in the level of tension around their tiny fire after the announcement.

"So, Warden Nathaniel, I have a question."

A little startled at being addressed so abruptly, Natahaniel nodded "Of course, my lady, ask away."

Hawke smiled "What is it with Fereldens and their "My Lady"-ing. It's just Hawke. Please."

He smiled back at her and Hawke realized that he was rather stunning with a smile. "It's still odd to be noted as Ferelden – most Fereldens assume I'm a Marcher. And to you, I'm just Nathaniel."

"Understood. So – Nathaniel… I'm just going to be blunt…. " Varric muttered "oh here we go…" from his side of the fire and Hawke shot him a look.

"I just have no way to politely put this, Nathaniel. Do you think Anders is dangerous?"

They had already established that he had known Anders and that he at least knew about his joining with Justice. He didn't readily admit if he knew about how Anders left the Wardens. Nathaniel seemed to genuinely contemplate the question but that may have just been a stalling tactic.

"It's difficult to say, really. The Anders I knew? I wouldn't say so. Foolish? Liable to get himself into massive amounts of trouble? Apt to drag people down with him as he attempts to keep his head above water? Yes to all of those things. But is he truly dangerous? No."

Hawke nodded "Okay, and what about Justice? Do you think Justice, as you knew him, was dangerous?"

Without a moment of hesitation Nathaniel responded "Yes."

"So, definitely dangerous mixed with foolish, troublesome, and dragging others down to save himself. That sounds fantastic." Varric tried to chuckle at this but it was a little too accurate to comfort any of them.

Hawke rubbed at her face and yawned. "I don't want to think about it right now. Right now I want a story." Hawke curled up on her bedroll, looking like she was nearly asleep already but, still with eyes closed she shot out an arm at Varric, vaguely waving her hand at him "Varric! Story time!"

Varric sighed "What would you like to hear, Hawke? I can tell you about something awful Isabela has done."

Hawke mumbled sleepily "I think I probably know all those."

"I can tell you about the time Merrill got lost inside the Hanged Man."

"I was there for that one, Varric. There was twine everywhere and the talkative man was convinced that it was all the connecting lines in the universe between people finally making themselves known. He called it a "character map"."

Varric laughed at that "That was a good night once we all got untangled."

There was silence for awhile from Hawke "Varric? "

"Yes, Hawke?"

"Are there any stories about you?"

"I'm sure there are, Hawke – but none of the ones I tell are about me."

"You don't want to dilute the legend, right?"

Varric chuckled again "You know me too well, kiddo. Get some sleep."

The rest of the camp followed suit shortly thereafter. Isabela had stayed quiet the whole night, ashamed of how she'd reacted in the deep roads and unsure of what to say to Hawke. She did manage to cop a healthy feel of Nathaniel at one point though, feigning an accidental trip. So that balanced things out on the whole as far as she was concerned.

…

Over a quick breakfast of whatever Hawke had left in her pack and some wimpy apples they'd snagged from a tree that morning while hunting for fresh water, Hawke convinced Nathaniel to stay at her house while he was in the city, insisting that he would be better company than none and that everyone would end up at her place later anyway.

They made it into Kirkwall and parted ways in Lowtown, with Fenris and Nathaniel trailing her through the city to her house. Both of them came in with her, determined to take turns in her bath to wash off the grime of the Deep Roads. Nathaniel went first, at Hawke's insistence, while Fenris attacked the larder, filling the hole left by the meager breakfast, the smell of him chased Orana quickly out of the small kitchen. Hawke's pending letter pile was mercifully light but it did contain a letter from the king with the royal seal instead of his private seal.

She put it aside until she'd asked for some additional buckets of water to be warmed so that Fenris could bathe immediately after Nathaniel's bath was drained and asked Orana to prepare one of the spare rooms for Nathaniel, making sure a fire was lit and the linens were aired. She also took the time to peel off her armor before sitting down to what she was sure was going to be a painful experience. Somehow the last few months had become worse and worse with no end in sight. After giving Bethanny over to the lava she began to feel some of the old resolve come back – some of the determination that life was not going to get the better of her. She was clearly insane. Who but an insane person would leave the Deep Roads feeling _better_ than they had when they entered?

It was with that mindset that she began to read.

…..

Marian –

I had no idea Eamon wrote that letter. He did not do it with my permission or knowledge and he's also completely incorrect.

It had been Eamon's plan for me to go to Orlais and leave betrothed to Celene. It's been his plan for quite a while as he sees it as an expedient political solution to the lack of an heir and Ferelden's current sad state of affairs. However, I negotiated an entirely separate deal, something of a military alliance as well as some taxing concessions. Eamon apparently got ahead of himself in his self-congratulations. I am not now nor will I ever be betrothed to Celene.

I have not even spoken to him of you. When discussing our trips through the Free Marches your name was mentioned and Eamon took it upon himself to assume a great deal about you, about our relationship, and about how much of it was his concern.

You have done nothing inappropriate in the least. If anyone has done that it has been me. I haven't been strong enough with Eamon to prevent his meddling. He did much the same thing with some of the companions I had during the blight, though never in a formal letter – that's taking it to a new level. I also think he assumed that, because of the distance between us, he could simply intervene and I wouldn't care or that I'd at least listen to his viewpoint. For many reasons I'd rather you not be in Kirkwall – but that's just one of them. However, my duties bind me here just as surely as yours bind you there. If I could, I'd be on a ship right now so you could tell me what I an ass I am in person. It doesn't feel right apologizing in a letter.

I will never again betray your trust in me or allow those around me to do so in my stead. It absolutely breaks my heart to think of you reading that letter from Eamon and what you must have thought, especially immediately before heading into the Deep Roads. I deserve all of your ire and more and I will gladly bear it if it means that you may somehow forgive me. I've been cast aside too many times to ever willingly do it to anyone else – especially without cause. You are my dearest friend, perhaps the dearest I've ever had. Your importance to me cannot be overstated and I will never allow another person to attempt to damage that. If you're going to hate me I want it to be because of me and not because of someone else's presumption.

Alistair

….

Hawke was slightly in shock. She reread the letter several times, unsure of how she felt. She'd expected an apology. She'd even expected some grand gesture of grief over the decision – something showy and trite. She expected the worst – something that made it clear that he was only apologizing because he'd been caught. She hadn't expected… this. This declaration of friendship and loyalty scrawled out for anyone to see.

The day had been too long and the weeks before it too filled with death and grief for her to even consider what she could possibly say in response or how it even made her feel. It certainly didn't make her feel better. It made her feel… scared. It had been easier when she could safely file him into the "right bastard" category. She could deal with that. She'd preferred it when he had been in the "wonderful man I feel incredibly close to" category. But "right bastard" would work in a pinch. Now she didn't know where to file him. She was still mad, but knew it wasn't his fault. She felt mistrustful again as she had before, like she should be careful and protect herself. What she wanted was some way to go back and simply erase what had happened so she could enjoy the time she had with him without feeling like a fool for it or waiting for next occurrence of supposed misunderstandings and apologies.

But she couldn't do that. She was not that simple though, Maker, she wished she was.

She needed the night to puzzle it through. And possibly some drinks.

As Nathaniel was heading down the stairs, washed and changed, she was heading out of the library with a tankard full of the ale that was nearly gone. She took a sip and, realizing Nathaniel was done with his bath, handed it over to him. "Very precious, don't waste it. I will probably never get another keg with the way I'm burning my bridges."

Nathaniel's face remained in its stoic mask except for a single quirked eyebrow, which made Hawke grin. "I'll be right back, fetching myself one. Chairs in the library, through here, are comfortable if you like."

Nathaniel followed her through and took a look around while sipping his ale, surprised at what he tasted. He continued to cast his eyes around, taking in the décor of the room and the general layout, getting a better sense of his host, "I lived in the Free Marches for several years when I was younger, sent here to squire with a noble family. I could have retired easily at a young age if I'd had access to Ferelden Ale here."

Hawke was making her way back down from the upper gallery were the cask sat and laughed "I'm sure you could have. In fact I'm sure I could have done the same. That could have taken care of Ferelden's money issues altogether. But – blighter that I am, I drank it instead." She settled against the edge of a desk, not wanting to filthy up a chair with whatever clung to her from the Deep Roads, smiling over the edge of her mug.

Nathaniel took the chair opposite. It was nice here. It was comfortable but not shabby. Somewhat grand but subdued. It seemed to fit Hawke quite well from what he'd come to know of her so far. The easy manner with which she dealt with those around her was interesting in the face of what she must have gone through in the last several years. He'd certainly heard of the Champion of Kirkwall but he'd never entertained that she would be this rather young seeming woman. She seemed both too old for her actual age and too young to have truly experienced all that she must have. He'd met far too many people like that already with the Wardens and it made him feel comfortable; Like he already knew her though he hadn't even caught her first name yet. He was broken from his revery as she spoke.

"So, you're Nathaniel Howe, a Grey Warden who is… retired? And you have a sister and a nephew who are currently here in the city. Anything else I should know?"

He took another drink. His personal history was not one he liked to share. "Should or simply want to?" He tried to smile but he could tell from her expression that it had come across as more of a grimace. "I was born in Ferelden, sent to the Free Marches when I was 16. I returned to Ferelden just after the Blight and was conscripted into the Wardens. That's… it really."

"Somehow I doubt that – but I understand. I won't pry." Hawke smiled at him in an understanding way and he believed her. She'd let him have his secrets, for which he was thankful. He still cringed whenever someone used his family name and he always waited for them to make the inevitable connection to his father. Even in the Free Marches the tales of Rendon Howe and his vile treachery had not gone untold.

"So you were conscripted into the Wardens?" Hawke was asking. Nathaniel nodded and she continued "For how supposedly "rare" the right of conscription is it seems odd that all of the Wardens I've known in more than just passing have been conscripted."

"It was decided I was more useful as a Warden than being hanged for theft. Anders was being hunted by Templars and they were going to hang him as well. Caron again intervened and decided to make him useful. I … don't know what other Warden you may have met, but the rest of them that I know personally were volunteers."

Hawke nodded "So they conscript to get useful people out of dire situations. It's certainly… practical. But it explains the grumblings I've heard about the Wardens being packed full of murderers and thieves."

Nathaniel smiled at that, noting that she'd deftly skipped admitting to who this other Warden she knew was, "Thieves have quick hands, murders don't flinch in the face of death. It's not as if we take vows like Templars, after all. Our only vows are vigilance against the darkspawn. And they certainly don't care about the cleanliness of your soul when they attack you."

Hawke smiled but it was hollow "I certainly know that!"

They were quiet for a few moments as they drank and watched the fire. Fenris padded in, hair damp. "I've drained the tub and refilled it for you, Hawke. You should go now before it gets cold."

Hawke sighed "I don't even want to move, Fenris."

"You really should, Hawke. You'll regret it later. Besides," He scowled at her "you smell awful."

Hawke laughed and pushed her mug at him as she stood "I'll remember that, Fenris. Keep our guest entertained while I'm gone? Maybe you can dance for him."

Fenris shot her his most disgusted look as she grinned at him over her shoulder, heading up to the bathing chamber. As she sank into the water she realized he was right – she smelled terrible and all of her muscles ached.

Her thoughts travelled back to Alistair though she had been determined not to think of him just now. She believed that he hadn't written that letter or ordered it written. Why she believed it, she couldn't say. But she had at least that much faith in him. And she believed everything else he said. Mostly because she really wanted it to be true. But the ache of something lost hadn't truly dissipated. And it might be a long time until it did. They were back to where they started – and perhaps even further back than that. They weren't strangers with a clean slate anymore – they were two people with a suddenly strained history that neither of them were at fault for.

It was completely unfair. She didn't want to punish him for it even more than she didn't want to punish herself for it. But that voice in her that screamed at her to protect herself was clear and strong and undeniable. It had been there all along, but was just muffled slightly but the protective blanket of his warm smile and his laugh, and the way he doled out comfort like he'd been trained in it. Divested of that warmth, she felt the fear of it all grip her. She could not allow herself to be foolish or betrayed. Not by someone she'd already opened up to so much. But – she would try. Because she wasn't sure how she'd managed to get through her life so far without it – without someone like him to lean on.

She knew she was right and knew that she would write back to him, as quickly as possible in the morning. She would tell him all of this however she could. If she could have left the city just then she'd be down at the docks haggling for passage to Ferelden with whatever late night crews were still lingering around. But she couldn't leave. She had to be there to either help fight what was coming or at least bear witness to the inevitable. She had made that promise to Sebastian, swore to him that she would continue to help him protect Elthina even while he began the process of reclaiming Startkhaven. She couldn't let him down now.

Mind made up, she scrubbed off the filth of the Deep Roads, putting behind her just one more link in the ever increasing chain between the person she had been and the person she was becoming.

Hair still dripping, but clean, dressed in her household finery and soft boots, she made it back down to the library. She heard the bantering before she made it to the door, laughter and more than a few voices. Varric and Isabela had joined Nathaniel and Fenris. They'd all moved to the upper gallery, dragging over and butting together two desks to allow everyone a spot. As Hawke ascended the stairs she wandered over to the cask of ale, retrieving a mug from a hook nearby and drawing a portion for herself. She thought of Alistair as she took her first sip and, while she still felt that tightness of trepidation grip her, she also felt the rightness of it. He was dear to her and she wasn't going to let her own fear stop her from holding on to that.


	24. Chapter 24

Conversations between Eamon and Alistair had been brief – notices from a chancellor to a king and nothing more. Alistair's ire at Eamon had only just begun to cool enough that he didn't have to consciously try not to sneer when he talked. And he was growing more… sad… about the whole thing than anything else. During the Blight, his faith in Eamon had been unshakeable. Alistair had still seen Eamon through the lens of his best childhood memories. Eamon was a protector; he was someone who cared for him though he wasn't even his child. Eamon was like a father and perhaps even better than one because he wasn't obligated by blood – he did it because he wanted to.

It was only by the end of the Blight and in his first year as king that the myth began to tarnish. Eamon was a man like any other. He was more driven, perhaps, but still just a man. He was also fallible. He made decisions based on their political expediency and not based on what the right thing to do was. He treated servants as poorly as any other nobleman – not with out-and-out cruelty – but with that air of superiority that clearly indicated that he knew he was better than them by virtue of his birth and that he knew they were beneath him and would always be. He also rarely saw his own faults, accusing political rivals of crimes he himself had committed with all the rancor of someone who was truly scandalized by such behavior. As Alistair had matured into his role as king he'd also matured in his view of Eamon. Eamon had never been a father to him. He didn't take him in because he wanted to; he did it out of duty and perhaps political posturing. And while there may have been moments of true affection between them when he was a child, all of that changed when Isolde came into the picture.

He'd once told Solona that he'd been wrong to feel enraged and forgotten when he was sent to the Chantry. But now he wasn't so sure. Maybe his ten year old self had the better grasp of things.

The anniversary of the ending of the Blight was approaching soon. Each year they'd held a sort of celebration in Denerim with street fairs and tournaments. It was an ideal Grey Warden recruitment opportunity and Alistair had always encouraged them to be present in the city as much as possible. He'd greeted Warden Commander Caron that morning and was, as usual, disappointed to find that the man still had not managed to develop a sense of humor. Alistair could not imagine being forced to kill darkspawn his whole life under such a dour, taciturn man. Despite his lack of mirth, however, he clearly saw and appreciated the strengths of his fellow wardens and inspired a great deal of loyalty.

Caron hated the spectacle of the yearly celebrations, preferring to stay in Amaranthine as much as possible, training new recruits and overseeing the order's day to day running. Being Orlesian, however, he had made it clear to Alistair that he would continue to show up for anything he needed to be present for in the hope that the Fereldens may eventually accept him. Alistair had told him not to hold his breath waiting for that day to come.

Caron had acknowledged, without the king bringing it up himself, the letter Alistair had sent about their wayward Warden Anders. He deferred talking about it during the greeting, but promised that they would have an opportunity to discuss it before he left the city and that this time he would actually answer the king's questions. That was good enough for Alistair, though it made him nervous for some reason. Caron typically just… never brought up… anything he didn't want to talk about. The fact that he had broached the subject himself made Alistair sure he wasn't going to like whatever was said.

Zevran had proven himself quiet the sneaky friend indeed. Alistair had no idea where he actually was at the moment, but somehow he'd been able to gather some information about exactly how Anders had left the compound in Amaranthine. And the assassin was sure enough of his information that he had relayed it without a single caveat, a single word of caution. Knowing how Anders had left Ferelden, what state he must have been in just a short while before Hawke first came to meet him – it left Alistair feeling sick. First because of the damage done to his fellow Wardens. Second, and more importantly, because of the ever increasing levels of danger he was sure Hawke had been exposing herself to for years.

Typically, as part of this whole celebration there was also a huge influx in the number of petitioning nobles. They seemed to feel that the king would surely be more pliant at this time of year because of good feelings or ennui or … Maker knew what else. It hadn't worked in years past, but it never stopped them from trying. Alistair was subject to the most ridiculous of requests during this month. One Bann was sure another was stealing his sheep and demanded justice. Another Bann didn't like the way another was "swannin about" at the last Landsmeet and was sure he was up to something; the King should look into it. One Bann wanted another to give up his half his lands for no other reason than the first Bann wanted them.

Come to think of it, it was always the Banns.

He had an odd feeling of… resignation… toward his letter to Hawke. He had done what he could, the little that it was. He had tried to repair things in the only way he knew how – by being honest. Destroying himself with worry was not going to make the reply come faster, if there was even to be a reply. As much as he hated to admit it to himself, he realized that there was in fact an upside to there being this much distance between them. It seemed that it was teaching him patience.

Or it least it had been.

The moment saw the letter sitting on his desk he tore it open, only belatedly realizing his study door was still open to the waves of visitors making their way through the palace. He began to read as he went to the door to close it.

….

Alistair –

I am not sure at all how to say what I need to so I will try to be as straightforward as possible.

I believe that you had nothing to do with Eamon's letter. I do not blame you for it and I do not think you are the kind of man who would lie about it.

My entire life has been all about protecting my family and, by extension, protecting myself. Allowing myself to be unguarded and vulnerable has been a struggle and now I feel like it may be more of one.

Despite that, you are too important to me to simply walk away. You have my continued friendship – never fear that.

I need time and your patience. I am not asking you to leave me alone – in fact, I think that it would help to hear from you more. I would dearly miss not having at least that much contact with you.

Hawke

…..

Alistair let out a huge relieved rush of air. The letter was more than he'd dared hope for. He felt lighter than he had in a very long time.

She would get every scrap of patience he had and he'd fake his way through patience he didn't actually have. He would prove himself worth the effort on her part.

He sat and immediately composed a letter in return. When he was satisfied with it, he handed it off to a courier and then turned his attention back to the work of the day.

He had decided in the last week to do something with Anora instead of allowing her to continue languishing in Fort Drakon. She was in a well-appointed area of the keep; She hadn't been left to rot in a common cell. But it was still four years of solitude and visitors only allowed if they came through a checkpoint, correspondence thoroughly evaluated to ferret out anything that might include secret messages. It was an awful life. And truly – Anora didn't deserve the punishment. She'd been a popular queen and she would be a popular noble once again. She was intelligent, slick with people, and had a keen business sense. Every day Alistair saw less and less sense in leaving her in exile, no matter the intense satisfaction he got from it in the first year of his rule. This country needed more strong nobles to come to the fore and that's exactly what Anora would be. If it eventually came back to bite him in the form of split loyalties or, Maker forbid, some sort of power grab, well, then he'd deal with that when it happened.

The true question was what capacity she'd be in when she was released. She could be given Gwaren, her father's former holding. It would be good to have a strong presence in the south. However, it also placed her far from Denerim and Alistair had a feeling that he'd want to have her close for any number of reasons. Denerim itself was in a somewhat shaky state at the moment due to the power vacuum after Howe was killed. They'd never really found another person to take on Denerim as it needed to be, to give the city the attention it truly needed instead of simply enjoying the power of the position. And the position did come with a great deal of inherent power - power which the last three men placed in the position had found ways to abuse. Whether it was the strange temptation of having such easy access to the elves – an obsession Alistair felt he would never understand – the relative wealth of the city and its holdings, or simply the fact that Denerim held the palace, he truly couldn't say. But obviously there was something about Denerim that attracted those ruled by their desires first and foremost and their sense dead last. Alistair was fairly certain Anora didn't have a fetish for elves, she had enough coin of her own from her inheritance, and enough business sense to find plenty of ways to invest her time and money in ways that wouldn't eventually be a detriment to any holding she was attached to.

Only a few of the Banns and Arls had a strong attachment to their lands. Teagan had no strong ambition for upward movement through the noble ranks because he truly loved his people in Rainesfere. Arl Wulff felt the same about West Hill now that he'd seen it decimated during the blight and could see the progress that had been made in its rebuilding. As far as he knew, few other Arls and Banns were especially attached to their holdings. He could easily shuffle them as needed to find a place for Anora. But it was especially important to him that it be correct for her, that it be something she _wanted_. He owed her at least that much.

As he dressed for his afternoon audiences it occurred to him that he needed a trusted sounding board for these things. While Teagan could be counted on, he also had a tendency to give Alistair too much rope, agree too easily. Eamon was out of the question at the moment – even if he weren't currently the last person Alistair wanted to get stuck in a room alone with, he had a long standing distrust of and dislike of Anora. It was most likely her common roots. Eamon was ever the snob about the supposed worth of bloodlines. He could write to Elissa and she may have some ideas, but he wished he had another advisor – or even a friend – at court who he could casually discuss things with as needed without having to write and wait. He smiled at himself – how he could still be the petulant boy-king when the mood took him never failed to amuse him. Maybe some things don't change so much after all.

…

Hawke and Nathaniel became friends very quickly. They both had a rather guarded nature and a great deal of confusion and pain about their pasts. While Nathaniel used his gruff, stern demeanor as a shield, Hawke used affable smiles and sarcasm. The end result was the same, however. They both knew exactly how to keep people at arm's length until they were sure of them. Instead of circling each other warily, however, the recognition of their shared defense mechanisms made them both relax. Neither of them would pry too much, ask too many questions, or make demands of the other. There were surely better things to base a friendship on, but it was far from the worst.

She'd been able to get very little information about the Grey Wardens from him, which she'd been expecting. She didn't much care about the secret rituals or all the dark secrets they had – but knew that Varric would be disappointed if she didn't even try. But he was willing to share more of what he knew of Justice as he had been when he inhabited Warden Kristoff's body, something that raised a whole raft of concerns over just what kinds of emotions and experiences the supposedly untainted Fade spirit carried with it when it joined with Anders.

Hawke was able to share with Nathaniel the ways in which Justice seemed to have change since then now that he inhabited Ander's body. While neither of them was sure of what it all meant or what they might do about it, the shared knowledge was a comfort for them both. They were both planners, watchers, information gatherers. Varric one night over drinks at the Hanged Man swore that he was going to write a whole new sub-set of books based on them about detective partners correcting wrong doing throughout Thedas.

Nathaniel also turned out to be something of a spectacular cheat at cards, completely trouncing all of them many times over. Even after Hawke had been sure he was stashing cards she'd been unable to spot him doing it. Bowmen weren't supposed to be that deft with sleight of hand and she realized he was probably also handy with a lockpick and at lifting purses. A few lengthy, smirking staring contests across the table had carried entire conversations. Oh she would catch him out, she swore it. And he winked back at her – she was welcome to try it, but he was sure she'd fail.

Nathaniel seemed to appreciate that she didn't care at all about his family history. She'd known who Rendon Howe was, she'd heard about his involvement with Loghain. But, she pointed out that if you judged her entire family by just one member's actions, which member you chose would greatly color your opinion. She told Nathaniel she'd stick to judging the Howes by the one she knew, which had brought an unexpected grateful smile to his face.

Delilah had been overjoyed to see Nathaniel and Hawke felt a deep pang of jealousy when she saw them together, clear affection and connection written all over Nathaniel's face as he hefted up his nephew and pulled Delilah into a one-armed hug. He had a family who cared about him and who he clearly cared about in return. After seeing that, she began trying to convince Nathaniel to leave Kirkwall. She herself had no family left to protect, but she could try to protect his. At first he scoffed, but the more she pointed out all the potential for disaster, the more he listened. Then the problem became that they didn't exactly have much coin. Hawke staked them without a thought, getting Isabela and Varric to reach out to their contacts in Ostwick to secure a place for them to live, providing travel supplies, food for travel, and a few contacts in Ostwick who would be happy to help them find work in exchange for… well, whatever Isabela had promised them. Hawke decided not to mention that to Nathaniel primarily because she didn't want to consider it herself.

A letter from Alistiar had arrived the morning Nathaniel was set to leave. He'd been there in her home for nearing on three weeks and, being a quick study, had come to understand her routines and moods – as much as they seemed to follow any pattern whatsoever. So when he found Hawke in the front room, arms crossed, staring intently at the letter on the desk, he didn't immediately disturb her. Her eyes were slightly unfocused as if she'd been standing there a long time. After waiting a moment to see if she would notice him there, he spoke. "I'm sorry to say, Hawke, that if you haven't manifested magic by this age, I doubt you've got any. You're just going to have to give in and pick it up and read it like the rest of us mundanes."

Hawke's eyes blinked but she didn't move anything else while a smile spread across her face. "You're probably right." She looked at him then "I've never wanted to be a mage, but every now and then don't you just wish you could shoot fire from your eyes or something? Just to really put someone in their place?"

Nathaniel laughed "I think you do just fine in that regard without having to resort to actual fire."

Hawke grinned at him and stretched her back. She'd obviously been standing there staring at the letter for a while. Despite himself, Nathaniel was curious. "So, it's obviously some sort of bill or something to get that much of your ire."

Hawke just shook her head "You might call it a tally of sorts, a receipt of damages done – that could vaguely be accurate." She sighed then "It's from Alistair. I'll have to read it eventually but… this going to sound insane, I am sure… No matter what's in that letter, I think I might be disappointed. If it's something good, I wonder if I deserve it. If it's something bad, it just confirms that I didn't deserve something good. I'm … clearly a mess."

Nathaniel shook his head "No, I think I understand." They'd had a very careful conversation about Alistair. She was reluctant to divulge and he was reluctant to pry and so it had all dribbled out in little pieces over the course of the days which he'd had to put together himself. Much to Hawke's relief, there was little misunderstanding in how he eventually viewed the situation and Nathaniel seemed to understand a great deal that she didn't need to relate at all. Perhaps it was their shared heritage, his experiences as Ferelden nobility, or simply the understanding of someone of a very similar nature. He risked putting a hand on her shoulder and giving it a squeeze and she looked at him and smiled. Reaching up her hand to pat his she seemed to let the rest of the mood fall off her. She turned to him and clapped him on the shoulder.

"Let's get you all packed up then. The sooner you hit the road the better. I've given Delilah some information on inns and where they can be found and how to charge off anything you need back to me. Both of you need to promise me that you'll stop and rest and eat and that you will not scrape coin together for that."

Nathaniel shook his head again "We will do as you ask, but we will also pay you back as soon as we can."

Hawke laughed as she picked up one of the packs he'd been putting together in the front room and slung it over her shoulder "It's a gift, not a loan, Nathaniel. Consider it payment for future access to your hospitality. I have a tendency to drop in unannounced."

….

Waving them away at the gates was a bittersweet feeling. She still envied Nathaniel his family but was at the same time relieved to see them all away, closer to some place safe. He'd promised to stay in touch, at least enough to let her know when and where they'd settled. And that would have to be enough.

Back at the estate she grabbed the letter from Alistair as she headed up the stairs to her room. She flipped it onto the bed while she changed into house clothes. Once the belted top was tied off she found herself staring at the letter again as she had been earlier, like she could see through the paper to the ink if she just concentrated enough. She was both eager to know his response and completely terrified of it. What if he said she was too much trouble?

Finally, disgusted with herself, she snatched the letter back up and cracked the seal to read before she could stop herself again.

…

Marian –

Relief is the only word I can think of that comes close to how I feel about your response. But it's surely not a strong enough word at all. I thank you for your trust.

I don't want to pry but – the Deep Roads? I'm extremely curious about what that trip might have entailed. And I would love to know how things fare in Kirkwall. Rumors continue to swirl and while it's tempting to dismiss the most seemingly outlandish of them, I have already seen enough to know that, when it comes to Kirkwall that would be a mistake. The horrors of the Gallows have become legendary across Thedas and only the darkest of things have been heard about Meredith herself.

We're heading into preparations for an end-of-the-Blight celebration in Denerim. It's become customary to have a week long fair with booths and games and tournaments and such. I used to love tournaments when I was younger – I was even recruited through one put on for Duncan while I was a Templar recruit. But watching them now just makes me feel old, really. I was so sure of my abilities when I participated in them myself. It was only later that I realized that tournament fighting is absolutely nothing like fighting for your life and the lives of others.

I have a whole roster of meetings and audiences today and then for the rest of the week it will be much the same. Thankfully, many of them are good audiences with those I haven't been able to speak to in a long time and am actually looking forward to seeing again.

At first I was surprised that you'd encountered Lelianna, but on further thought, it made sense. I hadn't realized she'd climbed quite so high up the ranks of the Chantry, or that she even held such ambitions. But then the Blight left a vacuum and I can imagine that it's given her purpose she would have lacked otherwise.

If she is sure that the Grand Cleric is in danger then I would take her word for it. I know that Sebastian is extremely attached to Elthina – it would be wise if you both spoke with her again and tried to convince her to leave. Her duty may be to minister to the people of Kirkwall, but she can do little of that if her own life is in danger.

Warden Commander Caron is also in the city and he has promised to at least have a discussion with me about Anders. My primary concern is why the Wardens seem to know exactly where he is and have failed to even attempt to collect him. I've also gotten some information about the manner in which he left that places Caron in extreme breach of his duty as a Warden and as Arl of Amaranthine. It's unfortunately not a short tale, but it's one I will tell soon. I will only say – please be careful with Anders. I know you are, but I'm convinced now more than ever that the spirit he carries with him should not be incited to anger if you can avoid it.

I don't suppose I could persuade you to take a nice vacation to Rivain or something? I hear they have lovely beaches, completely free of blood mages and blessedly light on Chantry officials.

Be as safe as you can be, Hawke.

Yours in old age

Alistair

…

She was neither as elated nor as terrified as she thought she would be. She just felt… right, and a little excited, and… thankful. She'd asked for what she felt she needed and she received it - exactly it. It was not a bad thing, just new to her. It was strange to find herself asking in the first place – people asked her for help, never the other way around. And then to ask and actually get what she needed without haggling, fussing, or bargaining – well that was just an additional layer of strangeness.

Hawke would never understand how Alistair could make her feel both completely unworthy of his friendship and like she was the only rightful recipient of it at the same time. It was more than a little confusing. While she'd always enjoyed unraveling puzzles and riddles, she also knew that this was one she was happy to simply be confused by. She didn't want to know why; she didn't want to unravel all the ropes.

She ran a brush through her hair and tied it back, setting off for the Chantry to find Sebastian and share with him what Alistair had said. She'd also had a letter that morning from Orsino asking her to come see him – which was never a good sign, but something that felt inevitable. She'd been errand girl for Meredith, now she was sure she'd be errand girl for Orsino. It would also be an opportunity to ensure that he'd correctly disposed of the ingredients she'd given him.

For all that Alistair mentioned her duty to the city, it seemed she was more accurately simply a mercenary just as she'd always been. Her clientele simply had a higher profile these days.

….

The conversation with Warden Commander Caron was not going well.

"This is Grey Warden business, Your Majesty. While I appreciate that you have thought to bring this to my attention, I cannot go after someone on your command. I am not yours to order about."

Caron had long dark hair, straight and shiny though going slightly grey at the temples. His eyes were a steely blue grey color that stood stark and bright against his weathered, tanned skin. Though not heavily lined, the lines that were there cut deep, as if the man had few expressions but they were nearly constantly worn. Alistair was not sure that he'd ever actually seen the man at ease, but he felt that the shift from vigilance to comfort would be one that only those who spent a great deal of time in his presence would be capable of spotting. Caron gave Alistair the impression that he perhaps bathed in his Warden Commander armor.

Alistair sighed, he knew Caron had to be doing this on purpose. "Once again, Warden Commander, I will explain that I am not ordering you to do anything. I am simply asking why you have not."

Caron sipped at his tea, drawing out his response for as long as possible, "The Wardens have sought out Warden Anders. We are aware of his location and his general activities as well as those he has dealings with. Some of whom, I am told have dealings with you as well." He let that last slip out as if it were an errant thought.

Alistair did not rise to the bait. If the Commander knew he were asking because of Hawke he would neither deny it nor tell him he was right. "Right, so you know he's in Kirkwall and he hasn't openly marauded through the streets yet so it's no concern to you. Is that what I'm hearing?"

Caron closed his eyes and, in the tone of someone repeating a mantra to a particularly stubborn child "Wardens cannot involve..."

"…themselves in politics." Alistair finished for him. "Yes, I've heard that quite a lot when it's convenient. But only when it's convenient. And that's what I can't seem to understand, Warden Commander… why is it convenient for you to leave an abomination who murdered a number of wardens under your own command to simply do as he will? He is known to be a Warden in that city – it's hardly a secret. And when something worse happens it won't just be "Anders the apostate" or "Anders the abomination" it will be "Anders the Grey Warden abomination" that is strung up."

Caron maintained a placid expression but Alistair saw the man's hands bunch up subtlety. So that had finally hit the mark. "In fact," Alistair continued "there is the matter that you are also an Arl and in that regard it is your duty to the crown and to Ferelden that you deal with criminals from your lands. He killed several nearby merchants and guards – not just Wardens – when he escaped. And no attempt has been made to bring him to justice."

"Your majesty will remember that Kirkwall has no Viscount and without a Viscount we cannot petition to remove one of their citizens."

"Caron, don't play politics with me – you will lose." Alistair allowed himself a stern look when he said this. It was easy for people to assume he was clueless and frankly, he liked to let them think that. Being underestimated was always an advantage in his experience. "The current leader of Kirkwall is Knight Commander Meredith. She knows of Anders – though the full extent of what he is exactly has been well hidden from her – and she has a dislike of mages bordering on insane. You mean to tell me that you believe she wouldn't gladly have Anders shipped out of her city?"

Some of the fight seemed to go out of Caron then, and he sighed heavily before responding. "Your majesty, you know what we are dealing with in Amaranthine. We are not in a state where we can handle rebuilding the city, the keep, and also handle Anders. It would take a small army to bring him in anyway and we do not have an appropriate force. I do not want to throw more barely trained guards against him – it would be a slaughter."

Alistair nodded "Then do me this favor, Caron. When he finally does do something that warrants your actual attention – you know, besides slaughtering a number of wardens and innocent bystanders – will you finally go after him and bring him to justice? You don't have to even deal with him directly you could bring in the First Warden and have Weisshaupt take care of it."

Caron scowled "The less they're involved the better. They're still clamoring for more information about The Architect. They are… unhappy with my decisions in that regard. I am sure they would be even more displeased to learn the details surrounding Anders."

"While I understand the position you are in, Caron, I think it may be the only way to resolve this." Alistair paused, realizing that he'd done nothing but badger Caron since he arrived. "I also want you to know that, both on an official and personal level, I know that you have done great things in Amaranthine with the Wardens. Your service to the order as well as the crown has not passed without notice."

Caron, gruff as always, simply nodded but didn't reply.

"Well. This has been productive as I could have hoped." Alistair rose, ready to quit the sitting room since he clearly wasn't going to get what he wanted.

Caron rose with him and surprised Alistair by speaking again "Your Majesty – I hold myself responsible for what happened with Anders. The truth of the matter is, we just haven't found a way to get to him and get him out of Kirkwall while also dealing with… other issues. We have not washed our hands of this."

Alistiar nodded, his demeanor softening, "I appreciate your attention to this, Caron. I know it is difficult balancing all the demands on you. I do not mean to add to your pile of burdens, brother."

Caron gave a tight smile, extending a hand to grab Alistair's forearm in a warrior's greeting "And I wish that I could remove at least this one from your own pile of burdens, brother."

Alistiar clapped the man on the back "Stay for dinner – bring any others from the compound you wish, you may dress if you would like but armor is fine as well. If you wish to dress and need anything at all please let me know – I'm sure I have several completely bored valets around who would be more than happy to have some willing victims for their ministrations."

Caron laughed softly at that. "Of course, your Majesty"

…..

Hawke's letter awaited him in his study and he took it with him to his room while he bathed and dressed for dinner. Tonight was to be Anora's official reintroduction as a noble. They hadn't exactly been keeping it a secret, but they also hadn't made any announcements about it either. She'd been more than a little surprised to see Alistair at her door in Fort Drakon, and even more surprised to discover that he wasn't there to gloat. The years in solitude had done nothing to diminish her beauty and she'd always been pale as porcelain so the lack of sun hadn't altered her complexion much.

As much as Alistair had been dreading the meeting with her, he found that, once they were face to face, his nerves melted away. She was the same as ever, severe, exacting, prim beyond all measure. But he was very much a different man. Where he had found her imposing and superior before, now he simply saw a woman grasping onto the vestiges of whatever noble bearing had been hammered into her. He felt sorry for her more than anything else. She was a capable politician but because she was a woman she'd been used as a pawn for the majority of her life. No doubt she would not see it that way, but Alistair knew that only pride kept her from accepting that as her reality.

He'd put off the meeting and dealing with her because he had been sure that she would still harbor some sort of rage over her father's end. But she didn't seem to. She either hid it very well or she was just as pragmatic as everyone had always told him she was.

After dressing and ensuring his hair wasn't sticking up in any odd angles, Alistair sat to read the letter from Hawke.

….

Alistair –

The Deep Roads were… well they were the Deep Roads. Dank, stiflingly hot or frigid by turns depending on your location, stinking of death and rot and darkspawn. You know – a delightful place for a picnic all in all. Delilah Howe found me in the Chantry courtyard with Sebastian just as we were heading down the stairs after I collected him for some archery practice – something I torture him with regularly since I am an abysmal archer. She practically ran up to me, clearly distressed. I would love to say that distressed men and women clamoring for my attention is something that doesn't happen often, but it would be an utter lie.

After a little bit of coaxing to get her to calm down she explained what had happened. Apparently her brother Nathaniel, a Grey Warden from Ferelden, stationed at Vigil's Keep, had been sent to the deep roads following the same path and expedition I'd gone on years before. She didn't know why, she just knew that the time for his appointed return had come and gone. The Wardens wouldn't talk to her about it and she didn't know anywhere else to turn.

I certainly was not thrilled with the idea of heading back down there, but I also didn't like the idea of just abandoning someone there either. Varric, Fenris, and I know that Thaig better than just about anyone alive – probably even better than the Wardens. It only made sense for us to go. While I was mulling it over Sebastian jumped in and just went ahead and volunteered me for it. I was already going to say yes but, Maker, I hate people committing me to things without my okay. Especially since I know Sebastian just has a sort of… gleefulness about saving people. The things he says while we're in the middle of a fight would have you doubled over in laughter. "Oh this is so much more exciting than the Chantry!" He's like a little boy walking through dreams of noble deeds. It's sweet, though. When it isn't grating.

We went back to the Deep Roads, back down to the Primeval Thaig and found Nathaniel eventually. He was sorely outnumbered and looked exhausted. He'd been separated from the rest of the wardens who had been with him but it seems some of them at least got out. There was also a dwarf among them who had lingered behind to set some charges – a last effort to take out as many darkspawn as he could before he was killed himself. Nathaniel refused to tell me why he was down there, why the Wardens were so interested in the Thaig our expedition had uncovered. He himself wasn't even actively with them anymore, but had taken the duty of exploring the place as some sort of… deal. Warden Commander Caron seems to have a lot of secrets – more than the rest of you Wardens – which is saying something.

Bethanny's body was where we'd left it. I was able to give her something close to a proper funeral. As proper as it can get in the Deep Roads anyway. Lava instead of a pyre, something hastily choked out instead of prayers. But I hope it was enough. I was happy to see that her bones were not far scattered, as that portion of the way out had very little darkspawn activity.

Afterwards, Nathaniel agreed to stay with me for a few weeks, resting and recuperating and getting his sister and nephew set to leave the city. Hopefully they're now safely tucked away elsewhere. I like Nathaniel quite a bit. He's honest and stern in a way that I find particularly… Ferelden. Spending time with him was both comforting and a little trying because he invoked some home sickness I thought I'd gotten away from after all my time here. He talked in detail about the land in Ferelden, especially in the north, and his obvious love of the country and the people shone through.

First Enchanter Orsino decided to request recompense for something I asked of him just before going into the Deep Roads. I'll explain more about that later – but Orsino had some interesting information about Templars and mages, sneaking out of the gallows, meeting in secret. He was sure that they were doing something that would bring the ire of Meredith down on all of them and he wanted me to investigate. Templars and mages, getting together for secret meetings, working together is something I never thought I'd see – especially in Kirkwall. Unfortunately their shared goal that night was to kill me. It's apparently the one thing everyone in this city is of a mind about lately. There seems to be a whole network of these meetings, some cabal planning something. Notes lead to a warehouse at the docks for another meeting and we'll be visiting there soon.

We also finally dealt with Castillon. I had the pleasure of handing over Isabela to one of his underlings and she left a very discrete trail for us to follow. I never thought I'd see the day where Isabela encourages me to call her a whore and punch her dead in the face – but the ruse worked. I'm sure I'll get paid back in full for it at some point. Castillon is – or rather was – a very arrogant Orlesian slave trader. Isabela wanted to blackmail him into giving up his ship and then letting him go free but, well, that didn't happen. I can't just let slavers walk away like that. We still convinced Isabela to take the ship now that he's dead but she wasn't happy about it - something about pride and bragging rights and some such nonsense. She'll steal any other thing she can lay hands on, but oh no, ships apparently are different.

The upshot is that she is now, once again, Captain Isabela. To placate her I promised we'd get her a new masthead for the ship – something appropriately bosomy.

Elthina refuses to leave. Sebastian and I both practically begged her, but she insists that it's against the will of the Maker for her to "run". I tried to explain that there is a difference between moving out of the way of a sure strike and running from the field. She didn't appreciate my martial metaphors and just kept insisting that she couldn't abandon Kirkwall. I tried, and I know Sebastian continues to try. But if he pushes it much further I am sure he'll be ejected when she reaches the end of her patience with him.

I no longer have anything to do with the two mages who were in my company. Merrill is very angry with me because I haven't helped her. She also needs someone to blame for what happened with her clan. Mare'Thari is dead. She allowed a demon to posess her instead of allowing it to posess Merrill. The entire clan rose up against us as a result and it was only by promising that I wouldn't allow Merrill to harm anyone else that we were able to leave without having to fight them all. Merrill has been obsessed with her evil mirror for years, unwilling to accept what was surely wisdom on the part of the Keeper. Mare'Thari felt that the Eluvian was a lost magic and that it should remain lost – it had even been responsible for at least one death that they knew of while it was in Ferelden in the Brecillian forest. Instead of leaving it there, Merrill decided to rebuild it, to "cleanse" it. And that's where her connection to blood magic came in. I had no idea that Mare'Thari would go so far in protecting Merrill and frankly, Alistair – it was an unfair trade. The loss of their Keeper and the (completely reasonable) exile of their first is going to further cripple the Sundermount clan. If you have any sway at all with the Ferelden Dalish (a tall order, I know), perhaps they could offer the remaining Dalish here refuge? I don't know how they'll manage cut off and without a leader now.

And Anders… I want nothing to do with him. Apparently he still seeks out Varric occasionally, but sneaks out of the Hanged Man if he hears me enter. It suits me fine. I've crippled his plans – I stole his Sela Petrae and his Drakestone, took several of the books I'm sure he was using as a guide for whatever he was making with it and handed them all over to Orsino for disposal. I couldn't just sit idly by while he carried out whatever he was going to do in the Chantry. It's been difficult not to tell Elthina about what I know, about the danger she's just barely avoided, as a way of convincing her to seek refuge. But, loathe him as I do, I cannot turn over his life to the Chantry and the Templars. My hope is that I've managed to stop him and that that will be enough. I busted up his clinic enough that he may believe it was simple theft or Templars, but I honestly do not care if he figures out that it was me. I want nothing to do with mages anymore. None of them. Let him curse my name or worse. If there are repercussions, I will deal with them.

Did you know that Sebastian has been pushing me to actively seek out the Viscount's seat? As much as he supports the Knight Commander and the Chantry in general he would still see me push Meredith to concede to an election. It's a hopeless dream, and he knows it, but it amuses me to no end to see where people's loyalties finally fall when they are pushed. The nobles who have suddenly clamored around me have conveniently forgotten that I'm the same mercenary I was years ago when they all but spit on me.

The Ferelden ale is all gone, by the way. It would have happened sooner but I stole the tap off the cask and hid it so everyone else would stop drinking it. I have the last mug of it here with me as I write. I think it serves as an apt reminder of you. Honestly, just thinking of the enormous cask sitting in my library is enough to make me smile. It feels like it's been a very long time since I've seen you. But I think the memory of your face grows brighter and not dimmer over time. I am sure I could pick you out at a hundred yards from just a glance in a bustling crowd, like there would just be a beacon over you. By the time I see you again you'll have changed completely and I wonder if I'll know you or you me. I'd like to think that we both would – that there is something more fundamental about knowing each other than the length of our hair or the amount of sun we've gotten lately. I'd like to think that you could disguise yourself completely and I'd still somehow just know you.

Not that I'm asking you to test that theory, mind you. The never ending plots of Kirkwall have made me weary of that sort of game – At least for now. I like to picture us in a garden on a day at the end of spring when all the flowers have bloomed and the days feel incredibly long with nothing to do but enjoy the day. I picture you with sunlight in your hair and an easy, relaxed smile on your face – just twisting up to say something ridiculous and endearing. I like to picture that before I try to sleep at night. I'm not sure if it helps or just makes things more difficult, but I do it anyway.

Yours in ship theft

Hawke

….

Struck at first by the simplicity with which she'd written it, Alistiar found himself rereading the portion of the letter that had mentioned Bethanny. He was sure he had just misunderstood. She'd really found Bethanny's remains? Did she really seek them out? He knew how painful that must have been. It was also the only funeral for her mother, brother, or sister she'd been able to have. Having that there in the deep roads, steps away from where she'd died – the pain of that must have been unbearable. But Hawke had mentioned it almost casually like she'd been relating a shopping list. He realized it must be difficult for her to discuss, but it also troubled him.

It made him smile, to think of her picturing him, but it also made him sad. As much as Hawke was surrounded by people it seemed she was also very alone. The peeling away of layers of family, trust, and comfort over the last several years would make anyone feel that way. But to see it expressed in such sweet and hopeful words invoked a fierce protective need in him. The last woman who needed protecting and his first instinct was to shield her – no wonder he was still without a wife.

Alistair was also very aware of exactly who Nathaniel Howe was. He'd been there, standing next to Solona as she finished off Nathanial's father in his disgusting dungeon. He'd also received regular reports from Caron about Howe after his conscription. By all accounts he was a good man who had eventually come around and understood his father's treachery after his initial bout of mistrust and extreme anger over Rendon's death at Solona's hands. But Alistair couldn't help the twinge of jealousy he felt. Nathaniel had been invited to stay in Hawke's home for weeks – more than half a month. Alistair himself had been unable to spend quite that much time with her uninterrupted and he'd known her far far longer. Nathaniel was also strong and handsome in a very severe way that he understood many women to find attractive. Did Hawke also find that attractive? Was Nathaniel a trusted friend now because of it?

He resolved to push it out of his mind. It would just make him insane if he dwelled on it. But even as he tried to move away from those thoughts they kept coming back, getting ever more detailed and intimate. Alistair had never thought of himself as a jealous man, but he realized he simply had never had it tested. He'd felt jealousy for Hawke's companions before, for simply being able to spend time, be around, be included in her day to day life. But this was different and darker and not a welcome discovery at all.


	25. Chapter 25

It was only days after receiving the last letter from Hawke, still unable to craft a response that didn't sound like an embarrassingly jealous man regarding her time with Nathaniel Howe, when Alistair was interrupted in the midst of discussing potential changes to the Denerim tax code with Anora. They'd been at this particular topic for hours and surprisingly little of it had been argumentative on either side, but it was still a relief to see a messenger provide at least a little break from what was promising to be a rather long day of hashing out details.

Unfortunately, the news caused everything to come to a complete halt.

That first report was incredibly garbled, only vaguely alluding to a disaster, something awful, but never truly explaining what had happened. As the messenger dutifully repeated back what he was told to pass along, both Alistair and Anora stood, dumbstruck and confused. On a second repetition it didn't make any more sense. Something had happened in Kirkwall.

They went their separate ways, both of them sure that their independent networks for information would need to be leaned on to get the full story. But it took a week for any true picture of what had happened to emerge. A major portion of the gallows had been destroyed, killing many mages and Templars alike. Worse, the Chantry had suffered a similar fate. The death toll was unclear – numbered anywhere from as few as 100 to as many as 500 in those initial reports. The Grand Cleric was dead along with nearly all the sisters of the Chantry, the orphans housed there, and ancillary vassals and brothers. The destruction of the interior of the Gallows – leaving the courtyard and the Templar quarters largely intact and focused primarily on the Mage's quarters - had killed several hundred more at least. A large number of phylacteries had been destroyed in what was being described as an explosion and the records kept for all the mages being housed there were proving difficult to uncover.

A battle ensued after the initial destruction. In a hurried meeting with Knight Commander Greagoir and First Enchanter Irving, Alistair was able to verify that both First Enchanter Orsino and Knight Commander Meredith had died – though reports on the exact nature of their deaths were something neither was willing to share. Alistair was only told that they were still trying to learn what really happened - That what they'd heard so far was… difficult to believe. So much so that Greagoir had alluded to the possibility that the Templars making the reports had been somehow addled through magic or abuse of lyrium.

And in addition to the destruction, the cost of lives, the mayhem – Alistair learned that Marian Hawke had been named Viscount of Kirkwall in the vacuum of power left behind. Her appointment was made by Knight Lieutenant Cullen – now Knight Commander – and upheld by a quickly made vote in the days after the destruction. While news of Marian made him feel relieved, he also felt oddly disappointed. Some part of him had hoped that she'd simply left and would not be dragged further into the mire of Kirkwall's intrigues. He also wasn't sure that naming The Champion Viscount was truly wise. She was a savvy woman, capable of diplomacy and sure footed enough to drag the whole city-state with her through this mess – but he knew just how strained she'd been for the past year and how much her heart was not in the process of fixing Kirkwall's messes.

It had taken two weeks to get even that much of a picture of what had happened and in that short time things had already begun to shift and change within the Circle in Ferelden and, if the dire warnings from the Grand Cleric of Ferelden were to be believed, throughout the circles of Thedas. Unrest among the mages had been seen as far as Nevarra, where a fire similar to the one that had destroyed the Starkhaven circle had broken out, scattering mages, destroying phylacteries, and earning the Right of Annulment to bring to heel the remaining mages.

Varric's runners, usually able to pass along messages and news at blistering speeds, had proven useless in getting more information from Hawke or her companions directly. It wasn't surprising to Alistair, but it was a disappointment and he'd already sent her several letters, hoping that they'd eventually make their way to her. The most he'd learned was that the city was in a state of barely controlled chaos and that martial law had to be enacted in order to protect the citizenry from themselves. The fighting, killing, and theft that broke out immediately after the battle and explosion had been worse than the explosion itself in many ways. Templars and city guard alike had been put to the task of patrolling the streets, enforcing a strict curfew, and escorting workers – most of them refugees from the Undercity – into Hightown in order to clear rubble and the dead.

After the third strained conversation with the Grand Cleric in a week (always in her office in the Chantry, of course. She couldn't deign to come see him herself) Alistair found himself in the very unhappy position of preparing a trip to Lake Calenhad to visit the circle tower. It was funny, really, that he'd been asked in a very round about sort of way to go and make sure that everything at the tower was still functioning as it should. It was an odd task to be given to someone the Grand Cleric still harbored a grudge against in the first place for having gotten away from her. But then perhaps she was wise enough to know that going herself or sending an official in her stead would be a poor decision. No – better that it be Alistair, someone who had already helped keep the tower together once before and then, when Solona died, attempted to make it a free home to the mages, exempting it from the control of the Chantry.

The idea had been there again ever since the events in Kirkwall began. He couldn't help but feel that this was exactly the sort of thing that could have been prevented with reform to the way the circles were handled. Perhaps now was the time when it would work and he'd finally feel as if he paid back Solona in some small way for all her sacrifice and friendship.

Probably not wise to think on it too much – that was the decision he made as he waited in the main hall for Wynne. She'd been there at the palace as a mage advisor and court healer since the end of the blight. While she wasn't necessarily as spry as she once was, she was also still just as much herself as ever – and that included her haughty dislike of being rushed. She was a constant source of being humbled and for that, as much as it annoyed him in the moment, he could only be grateful. It was all too easy to let the power of his position go to his head. Wynne reminded him, early and often and many times with just a look, that in her eyes he was still the young man who had to be harangued into changing his socks or darning a shirt.

When Wynne finally arrived she looked just as unhurried and calm as she always did and they wordlessly fell into step together, surrounded by the King's guard, down through the courtyard to a waiting carriage – a form of travel that Alistair made chosen in deference to Wynne, though if asked he'd utterly lie and tell her he preferred it, just to keep her from making that face she makes when she thinks someone is coddling her.

Once they were well away from Denerim, and after several false starts that trailed off into pointed long sighs, Wynne finally spoke up. It was like someone cracked open a damn. She went over the likely state of the circle, the state of the mages, and the general state of the Templars as she knew it. She then discussed in detail the different factions within the circle and their general goals – something he was aware of, of course, but hadn't had quite gotten the details of the scope of previously. He sat and listened to whatever she wanted to say. Her feelings about the circle had always been nuanced and strained. She and Solona had gotten into a few heated debates about it all, finding that once they were away from the circle the solidarity of purpose the mages had dissolved and their very personal experiences while kept captive there had strongly influenced their opinions on the correctness of the Chantry's path.

But Wynne had always been one for caution, for fearing the unknown when it came to what might happen if the long traditions of the Chantry and the circle were changed. To hear her now admit to him that change might be inevitable and that it was only a matter of trying to ensure that it be done with a minimum of upheaval was startling. She wasn't saying they needed to disband, but it was the closest he'd ever heard her get to the idea that, perhaps, the old way wasn't necessarily the only way.

The trip from Denerim to the tower took nearly a week and while Alistair had told himself he'd stick it out in the carriage, by the second day he found himself coming up with reasons to ride along with the guards. While the news from Kirkwall had been thin at best, he disliked being away from Denerim where there was at least the possibility it could reach him. While travelling, his correspondence would be piling up in his office. Worry pushed him to move and his fidgeting across from Wynne only drove her to sigh at him and shoot him annoyed looks.

When they finally reached the tower itself, it was with a sense of relief instead of the dread he'd been expecting. It took multiple trips to ferry his entire contingent across the lake – making him wonder yet again why they didn't just fix the bridge. Surely it couldn't be that much of a deterrent to would be escapees from the tower and he couldn't imagine what it was like trying to lay in supplies, food, or even receive mail regularly. Greagoir was blessedly busy when he first arrived, leaving just Irving and the usual ante-chamber guards to great him. While Alistair wasn't really intimidated by Greagoir, he also found the man difficult to simply talk to. Irving, on the other hand, was almost affable, even after the attack on the tower he'd been smiling, quietly amused at just about anything Solona had to say to him, as if she were a favored granddaughter and not someone who was, in fact, one of his more difficult charges at the tower during her time there.

After ensconcing themselves in Irving's office, he was able to get a basic assessment of how the tower fared. They'd had a small uprising that had been put down quickly, the mages responsible held in cells near the bottom of the tower. It had seemed to Irving to be a rather spontaneous outbreak following in the wake of a single Templar being a little too rigid in his duties and causing a young apprentice to fall into a bookcase in the library when he startled her, reprimanding her for lingering later than her curfew. Several of her fellows took exception and attempted to retaliate.

The incident had resulted in some mild, easily healed burns for the Templar, and the mages being detained for a few days until their tempers cooled. It was a blessedly mild eruption of tempers – one that wasn't unheard of in the best of times – and Irving felt that, though tensions ran high among them all – it was likely an isolated incident that had no direct connection to the events in Kirkwall.

Greagoir joined them eventually and, after confirming Irving's assertions, asked just why it was the king was there checking up on them.

Alistair paused. He hadn't wanted to bring it up at all, but after seeing things here again with his own eyes and knowing was happening around Thedas, he felt it couldn't be avoided. And so, keeping the waver out of his voice and struggling to portray a level of confidence he didn't truly feel, Alistair laid out his plan.

Break from the Chantry. Keep on those Templars who will stay, let those who insist on remaining loyal to the Chantry leave – back to Orlais, to other circles, anywhere else. Do not allow them to stay and foment rebellion. The mages will also be given a choice – stay and stay protected from the inherent dangers of being a mage and from everyone else in the world. Or leave, become an apostate, and take your chances. The Ferelden circle would be autonomous – no more Chantry control, no more hunting mages. If they chose to come there or their families sent them there, they could be taught how to control and channel their magic. Their families could write, could visit. Perhaps initially, those born into nobility would still lose their titles – that might be a bridge too far just at the moment – but otherwise, their families, their names, would remain intact.

Wynne, of course, knew what he'd been about to propose. Irving, too, clearly was unsurprised and seemed almost amused at the little speech he'd just given. Greagoir had a face like a storm cloud, angry, foreboding. The silence hung there between them. He knew Greagoir would be the difficult part in this, but he was vital. Without his support this would go nowhere except into a report back to the Grand Cleric declaring what a heretical lunatic the king was.

When Greagoir finally spoke, it was with all the authority and disapproval he could muster thundering through his voice – but his actual words… he simply wanted to know how. What about the lyrium? What about the Dwarves and their agreement with the Chantry? Would they have to ween the Templars off of their addiction? And what did they really know about lyrium withdrawal? What would they do about the Chantry's reaction and the reaction of the Templars themselves? What would they do about funding that they need to keep everyone fed, clothed, and the storehouses stocked with the magical goods the mages needed for their studies? Would their rules around how Templars interact with the mages change? How would they change?

It was a great wave of questions that made it clear to Alistair that this was not the first time Greagoir had thought of this. It was perhaps not the first time he'd had this discussion. But it was the first time any one of them except Alistair looked as if they were taking the prospect seriously.

It was another three days spent at the tower. They discussed strategies, discerning the largest points of contention and worry, as well as formulating plans for how to make it all work. Greagoir scoffed initially, but then began asking questions which made Alistair sure he'd thought of it himself. What about their lyrium supply – that comes from the Chantry and an iron clad agreement with the dwarves. What about the Chantry's reaction. What about Templars who would surely rebel?

Alistair spent another three days in the tower, discussing strategies, discerning the largest points of contention and worry, and formulating a plan for how to make it all work. Wynne, for the moment, would stay at the tower to help stabilize things. She made those senior enchanters who had survived the attack on the tower years before feel more comfortable and she was extremely adept at calming and focusing the attentions of the younger enchanters. But Alistair hoped he wasn't too obvious in also wanting her there to keep her out of Denerim. He wasn't sure what, if any, backlash there would be mages as a whole and he didn't want her there in the palace where there was far too much access to her and the few healers she had on staff with her.

Another three days of travel – they left the carriage at the tower, claiming it was a courtesy but it was really just too damned slow for Alistair's taste – they regained Denerim. The few horses they'd brought with them were lathered and exhausted, but Alistair was far too eager to be back in his office to take his time or change mounts as he should have. He had a brief note from Varric on his desk among all the other missives. And "Brief" was a bit of an understatement.

….

A –

Stand By. Things are messy.

V

…

He'd just about gotten used to the idea that that was all he was going to get, working through the rest of his correspondence and sending out messages for the next day, when a runner appeared. They were liveried – Kirkwall's colors – and the young man spoke, he was clearly Ferelden. Alistair was sure his heart was climbing into his throat.

"Your Majesty, I have two messages from the Viscountess of Kirkwall, her Grace Marian Hawke." The man bowed and presented the messages in his outstretched hands, displaying a sort of formality he hadn't seen since the first messages came from Orlais at the beginning of his rule. Marian was clearly being very careful in how she presented herself and Kirkwall at this crucial moment.

Alistair took the messages – two of them – and dismissed the messenger with a simple thank you, assuming the man would know where to go and frankly, too eager to hear from Marian herself to care too awfully much.

The first message bore the seal of the office of the Viscount.

…

To His Royal Majesty, King Alistair Theirin of Ferelden

It is with a heavy heart, but also hopefulness that I write to you in the first official correspondence from my new position of Viscountess of Kirkwall. As you are no doubt aware, a terrible calamity has befallen the city-state of Kirkwall and it was the decision of a vote of all property owners within the city that I, Marian Hawke, be appointed to lead us out of this disaster and toward a brighter and more stable future. The events that led up to the destruction of so much property and the loss of so many lives are being thoroughly investigated while we, as a city, begin the long process of rebuilding.

While the events in Kirkwall have been devastating, they are not insurmountable. I truly believe that Kirkwall will emerge from this dark time far stronger than it has ever been and with a true alliance among the rest of the Free Marches specifically as well as the greater span of Thedas as a whole.

It is my sincerest hope that, as Kirkwall has been a friend to Ferelden in the past that we may continue to enjoy a strong and fruitful relationship. Despite our current state, I truly believe that Kirkwall has much to offer the other nations of Thedas – even those outside of the Free Marches – and I extend our greatest appreciation for the kindness and generosity you've shown us in years past.

The aid you provided to Kirkwall and her great number of Ferelden refugees did not pass without note, though I do believe my predecessor may have been faint in his praise for your actions. Many of the refugees still with us today have chosen to stay here and are no longer simply bereft of options to leave. Those who wished to return to their homeland have, by and large, done so already thanks to the ships you sent to secure their passage home. I believe that Kirkwall is now stronger thanks in large part to the work and character of the Ferelden people who have now made this city their home.

Should there be any assistance that Kirkwall may provide you in return, please do not hesitate to ask – no matter how large or small the issue may be. This office desires nothing more than to forge a strong and lasting relationship with Ferelden. As a mark of our gratitude and a nod toward continuing this strong relationship, please find within this correspondence a contract which I've taken the liberty of drawing up. I believe you will find the terms very attractive. Should you have any concerns or should you like to negotiate the terms set out within, please send word and either my seneschal or I personally will address those needs.

Sincerely, in Friendship –

Lady Marian Hawke, Viscountess of Kirkwall

….

The nearly overbearing formality of it all was a little startling at first, but it was exactly the sort of thing he'd expect from her – acknowledgement that things were bad, a statement that they were being worked out, and then swiftly on to new business, making it clear that she – and by extention the city-state – had not been felled by their troubles.

The contract she alluded to was… somewhat staggering. She offered the fruit of the lands around Kirkwall – both crops and sheep – to Ferelden exclusively for the term of five years. Outside of the grain and meat stores needed to keep Kirkwall itself going, all other lands would ship their products directly to Ferelden, hitting land at ports of the King's choosing for the best distribution of the grain and livestock. The workers of those fields would largely be made up of Ferelden refugees – the bulk of whom were farmers. In exchange, Ferelden's circle would agree to take in any surviving mages from Kirkwall as well as any Templars who were no longer fit to work in the Gallows there. Because there were so few mages left, they suddenly found themselves with far more Templars than they knew what to do with. Any reclaimable magical items, alchemical ingredients, and lyrium stores on-hand would be transferred with the mages and the Templars.

She was dissolving what remained of the Kirkwall circle. It was a… bold move. A frighteningly bold move, given the city-state's history with the Chantry, mages, and the long held reputation the City of Chains boasted for how it controlled mages. It also raised the question – did she have the Chantry's support for such a move?

The second letter bore Hawke's personal seal – it felt like forever since Alistair had seen it, her hand drawn sketch of the Amell shield scraped through the wax.

….

Alistair –

I first of all apologize for my lack of correspondence. Varric let me know that you've written several times, but he's intercepted everything that's come across my desk that isn't strictly related to the running of the city and Seneschal Bran has intercepted the rest of it. Frankly, I'm thankful for it. I don't think I could have been coherent a week ago and I'm not all that sure that I'll do better today. But I know that, were the situation reversed, I'd be halfway to Ferelden right now just to yell at you for not writing.

I have no idea how much you know of what happened here. From what Varric told me, there's nearly a moratorium on information going on right now and it seems the entirety of Thedas is screaming at me for answers. The Divine in Orlais is apparently dispatching a force of Templars to take back to the city. Back from what I'm not really sure, since we've secured it quite well, I assure you. If you are amendable to the contract I sent you (and frankly, you'd have to deaf dumb and blind to not see that it's a fantastic deal and you should take it – the lands around Kirkwall will feed Ferelden for years in addition to replenishing your stores and giving you a surplus to sell back to whoever you please), then there won't even be a circle mage left in the city for them to take charge of. That's a headache for another day – I have to deal with all of this in small manageable portions or I'll … I don't know… I won't get through it.

I won't bemoan the place I'm in – I think that would be unfair given your own experiences taking over a country 4 times the size of Kirkwall immediately after a blight. But perhaps you, of all people, might have a good sense of what this is like without my having to tell you. I'm not doing well. I won't lie. Fenris has been… well, he's been Fenris. And for that I cannot say enough in thanks. He's been the only motivator for continuing forward these past weeks and I will never be able to repay him for it.

So – let me go back to the beginning. For the most part, I will only tell this story to those I absolutely have to – but you… you I _want _to tell. I need you to know, to understand my position, even as most of those around me will not or cannot.

You know that I took the Sela Petrae and Drakestone from Anders. I gave it to Orsino for safekeeping or disposal, leaving it and the books Anders seemed to be using for instructions to him to know best how to handle. He accepted them, thanked me for giving them over to him and possibly forestalling whatever terrible thing might have happened with them. I'm sure now that Orsino knew that Anders had joined with a spirit or that he was at least unstable or dangerous. At the time that I handed it over I thought I'd still been protecting him, keeping him under wraps – as little as he appreciated it. The last time I spoke with him before everything happened he seemed to think I'd been… leading him on somehow – flirting, projecting some sense that I… I wanted him but was simply playing hard to get. It couldn't have been further from the truth – I never showed a moment of interest in Anders. But perhaps he's always seen only what he wanted to see. That would help explain how he could join with Justice in the first place, I suppose. The number of women and men who would have swooned for him and he was hanging his hopes on me. It's ridiculous to even think about.

But I've digressed from my point – I haven't really thought on any of this much. I'm trying to simply get through everything and that doesn't leave me much time or, frankly, much desire for introspection.

I handed over the items to Orsino, and he asked me to investigate the Templars and the mages who were going missing from the Gallows at night. You know how that ended – a plot against Meredith and the bastards took Fenris. I later told Cullen everything I knew about the plot, about who was involved, how I'd found out about it, anything I could think of. Cullen and I quickly became allies – something I never thought would happen, but he's been stalwart, invaluable, unshakeable. I don't know that anything I've attempted would have even worked without him always there to assist. I spent the next several weeks doing anything I could to help him. Mages were escaping, apostates were turning to blood magic and spawning demons and shades in the streets – it was chaos and Cullen's hands were heavily tied because Meredith kept him assigned solely to the Gallows. He confided in me that she wasn't just paranoid, not anymore, but that she was exhibiting some of the symptoms he'd associate with an overdose of lyrium. Extreme paranoia, dementia, sometimes humming to herself as if listening to music only she could hear.

And then I was called to lowtown by an urgent note from Orsino. As I arrived, a harried Templar – a raw recruit who looked scared half to death - rushed toward me and begged me to intervene in some argument Meredith and Orsino were having. Why they were in Lowtown to begin with was a mystery to me. I suppose it's not so strange for the First Enchanter of the circle to be allowed some level of autonomy, but under Meredith I would have expected that sort of freedom to be restricted.

They were arguing – she wanted to search the tower for illegal or dangerous materials, and he argued against it, claiming that it was a hunt for things that were not there. At this point, I was in total agreement with him. Those mages within the circle were obedient to a fault – especially after they saw what happened to those who'd been in league with the Templars working against Meredith. I tried to calm them both, but neither of them were having it.

Out of nowhere Anders showed up in the middle of the fight – I hadn't seen him for weeks – declaring that a decision had to be made, that there had to be a clear line drawn. And Orsino, looking murderous and dark in a way I've never seen him before, agreed with him. Meredith started ranting about how the circle had clearly fallen and that she was going to search it immediately for its blood mage influence and… Maker, Alistair, there was an enormous explosion. The Chantry just blew apart as well as a portion of the Gallows across the water. Both happened nearly at the same time and chunks of masonry began falling down all across the city, bits of rubble smashing into nothing directly around us. The explosion was truly enormous. I've never seen anything that destructive. Sebastian, who'd come with me along with Varric, Aveline, and Fenris, went to his knees, wailing after Elthina.

I assumed it had to be Anders – he'd found a way to get more ingredients, to build another bomb somehow. I turned toward him, shaking him and asking him what he'd done. But he was just as shocked as we were. I knew it had been his plan before I took his reagents from him, but the blue in his eyes that signaled Justice's influence flickered and died while I watched him. He grabbed my arms and just shook his head at me. It hadn't been him. Some of the Templars around us were just as confused and weren't sure who they should be moving toward, half moving to grab Orsino and the few enchanters he had with him, a few inching toward Anders.

Meredith didn't even seem to notice that the confusion was happening. She called for the Rite of Annulment, stating that every mage in the city had to be killed. Orsino insisted back at her that the Rite would never be carried out because he wouldn't allow it. All of us – the enchanters from the circle, Varric, Sebastian, Fenris, Meredith – we were blown back suddenly by something that Orsino cast just before he took off running, heading toward a boat that would take him across the water to the Gallows. Meredith brushed herself off and took the opportunity to gloat about how right she'd been before signaling to her Templars to attack.

They immediately killed all the mages in attendance, those mages who'd been there to support Orsino but had been left behind. Thankfully no one touched Anders. Just at that moment I'm not sure how I'd have responded to that. Meredith told me that she would leave him in my hands to decide what to do with. I suppose it could be considered a mercy, but I feel I'd come to understand her – it was a test. She wanted to see if I'd cut him down.

But she left, heading toward the Gallows herself, pursuing Orsino toward whatever it was he intended to do – as if he hadn't already done enough.

Anders, for his part, claimed full responsibility for all the planning, said that it was him and not Justice that did it and almost dispassionately told me to end his life. He said to just have it done with since everyone would assume that he'd been the one anyone. I asked him if he was still pleased with the outcome even if it hadn't been done by him. There was a flash of Justice's blue light in his eyes for just a second and he said, quietly enough that only I could hear him that this wasn't justice. That it was wrong, he could see that now.

Sebastian, half mad with fresh grief railed at me, claiming that since Anders had been planning this very thing he was surely just as damned as the one who had carried it out. I told him he was being ridiculous and that he should calm down. In reaction, he shot toward me, stopping only when we were practically nose to nose. He told me that perhaps I was to blame, since I'd given the ingredients to the murderer along with the blueprints. He - Maker I hate to even repeat it since I know how he must have felt at the time… but he told me that I'd always been overly sympathetic toward mages due to their "curse" being so present in my family. That made me a poor prospect for any sane solution, he said. He told me that I was just as cursed as the rest of my family – and that I should take their fate to heart because it was what was reaped by apostates who denied the will of the maker.

I've no idea if he's right, Alistair. Maybe he is. Maybe it was just the anger of grief speaking. But that cut in a way I don't think I can ever explain.

In the end, all of them stood there, with me, but leaving it all in my hands.

I told Anders to leave since I knew he wouldn't do the right thing and help me with what needed to be done. I let him know that if he chose not to leave, I'd kill him when I next laid eyes on him. That he needed to go, never return, and never ever find me again. He had slumped down on a crate while I talked As I turned to leave he grabbed my hand and held it for a moment, pulling me around to look at him. I've never seen anyone quite that anguished before but… as much as it might have touched me before I just felt nothing. No more protection, no more care – I've nothing left for Anders.

We headed back up through the city, deciding that we might try to gather some additional forces on our way – sell swords, Templars, city guard – anyone who might lend assistance. Unfortunately most of what we found was demons, abominations, shades. Mages backed into corners by Templars and letting loose whole hosts of Fade spirits in their fright. It was a nightmare. A Pride demon higher than that ridiculous statue of the "Champion" at the docks attacked us along with waves of shades. They seemed never ending. But we eventually made our way through to the bay, dragging Templars along with us wherever we could find them.

And we finally got to the Gallows and ranked up with the Templars, systematically moving through the courtyard, the Templar hall, and then finally to the inner apartments of the mages themselves. A few mages came to us just as we got there. They were scared and begging – they just wanted to live, they weren't part of the plot with Orsino, and they had no desire to fight the Templars. I asked the Templars to let them go, to put them somewhere safe so that not all the lives had to be lost. But… we're pretty certain they agreed to our face and simply slaughtered them once we were at a distance.

I frankly don't remember much of the fight through the Gallows. I was told later that I was more reckless than usual, especially without a healer with us. I cannot even begin to put into words what it was like to slaughter my way through an entire circle of mages knowing that many of them were completely innocent and simply fought back because they wanted to live. It was horrifying, Alistair.

When we finally got to Orsino he… he was crazy with grief and anger. He was ranting and he said at one point that "maybe Quentin had been right" – Quentin, the necromancer who killed my mother. Orsino had known him, communicated with him – had likely known what he was doing all along. And he'd still had the gall to ask my help, act as if we were on the same side. He did something I've never seen before – taking bodies of fallen mages from around him – mages HE killed – and forming them around himself into some sort of… suit of flesh. I've seen abominations – I've never seen anything like that, Alistair. When I think of what magic is capable of it makes me shudder to think of it unfettered.

The fight was lengthy. I'd rather not recount the details. When the main body fell there was this… thing… inside. We think it was what was left or Orsino himself. It certainly wasn't a human anymore, skittering around like a spider with a man's distorted face. We wore it down. Sebastian and Varric with arrows and bolts, Fenris and I with blades, Templars scattered around, smacking it down with their shields when it got close. I finished it off with my bootheel.

We fought our way through what little was left of the Gallows, back out to the main courtyard. Meredith and her remaining Templars were there. She ordered them to take me and kill me – she said that they'd claim I was struck down by a mage. Cullen intervened, stating that he thought they would just arrest me. Alistair – they were going to ARREST me. After everything I'd just done, they were sure I'd somehow been involved, that it was my fault. Cullen looked shamefaced, but he truly meant to clap me in irons and was only outraged that Meredith was calling for my death. It just felt like yet another betrayal. I understand now his thinking on the matter – arresting me would allow them time to investigate, to clear my name – but at the time it was simply too much.

Meredith didn't even give Cullen the chance, she turned on him, saying that he and everyone else – all her Templars – had been influenced by blood magic. She began swinging her sword around at all of them. Cullen attempted to stop her, to strip her of her rank, but she heard none of it. And that's when Varric recognized the idol.

When we were left in the Deep Roads, when Bethanny died, Bartrand locked us in after we found an idol. It was made of a pulsating red lyrium. It eventually drove him mad. We tried to find it, but he'd sold it and he was too addled by the thing to make any sense when we tried to find out who he'd sold it to. The buyer had evidently been Meredith. She'd had it incorporated into her sword and had been carrying the thing around for Maker knows how long. Instead of just making her insane – which it surely did – it also seemed to imbue her with some sort of… power. Her eyes glowed red. She was incredibly strong, knocking me clear across the courtyard several times before she literally seemed to fly, launching herself to a platform above us.

The very statues in the courtyard came to life, Alistair. Bronze statues of Andraste, the tortured statues of slaves, all of them lurching forward and attacking us. All of the Templars still around fell into the fight with us, all loyalty to the madwoman lost in the face of what was clearly an ancient and terrible magic. And it just went on and on. When we felled one statue, another would rise. When we crushed another, it reformed into a different shape, spinning its multiple arms, all armed with swords and impossibly fast. I was blind with exhaustion finally, sure that I'd die at the sword of this lunatic Templar woman. But then… she seemed to want more – more power, more magic – from the sword and it just shattered, sending pieces flying into her eyes and her face. It seemed as if the thing was made of fire itself and it seemed to burn her from the inside out. She fell to her knees and when the awful choking stench of the smoke cleared, she was an ashen husk, little more than a statue herself at the end of it.

The Templars, they fell to their knees around me, as if I was some savior. I was bleeding from a million cuts, wounds, bruises and we'd just destroyed every mage we could find. Not a single healer to be found and 30 Templars choosing that moment to launch into some congratulatory ceremony in thanks.

After that, it's all a little bit of a blur. I was named Viscount for want of anyone else who could lead them through this. We brought the denizens of Darktown up into the light – they're being fed and housed in the keep in between shifts while they work to dig out the Chantry. We've recovered most of the bodies, we think, but anything close to the center of the blast area was destroyed. The statue of Andraste that dominated the Chantry was blown into minute pieces that glitter in the rubble. The Grand Cleric's body has not been recovered. We've held a service for her, assuming that what happened to her must have been as absolute as any pyre would have been.

We've lost just over 600 souls counting the mages and Templars lost to fighting, those throughout the city crushed by rubble, and all of the sisters of the Chantry and their orphan charges. I've set a curfew and a strict guard rotation because all of the less savory elements of Kirkwall decided that the chaos of destruction was the ideal time to take advantage of those who could not protect themselves. I do not count the Coterie, the Carta, and the simple dumb thieves and murderers among those we've lost. They barely count as people in the first place – most of them have been dumped into the harbor. Let them rot in the sea for their disgusting behavior.

We're still in the process of clearing rubble. I've been living in the Keep along with the guards because my estate was damaged by falling debris from the explosion and, frankly, it's simply easier to be on hand in the keep for whoever needs me whenever they need me. Seneschal Brann has insisted that this is unseemly, but he's also been sleeping there as well so he has no room to speak. There is far too much work to be done to stand on the ridiculous ceremonies of the past. If the nobility decides they made a mistake electing someone so very uncouth, then so be it. I'll frankly relish the day they find a successor.

I spent my life skulking in the shadows and now I'm the most recognizable person in this entire city-state. It's success of a sort and Varric insists I should be enjoying it – should have enjoyed every bit of fame and recognition that's come my way for years. But I don't. I long for anonymity. I want to walk through a crowd and catch no one's eye. I want to leave no mark, leave nothing in my wake. I feel like then, maybe then I could rest without being watched. I know it's not normal to wish to be erased and I don't mean that with the finality I'm sure it seems I mean – I just can't take much more of this praise and attention for acts that I'm not sure I should have committed.

But as with everything else, I've had no choice. Every decision made was done under duress, a need to act and quickly and with sureness. I've heard mutterings that I had been planning this rise through the ranks for years and I feel humbled that anyone would think me so cunning.

My long planned escape to Ferelden has been delayed yet again. Perhaps I can manage sometime next year to make an official visit? That's if the Divine doesn't attempt to take us over, of course.

I miss having someone to talk to – and of course it happens when I most desperately need it. Please send back your response to the contract as soon as possible – the sooner those mages and Templars are set on a path that takes them out of this city the better.

Yours –

-Hawke

…..

Alistair felt drained, stunned. He'd share this information only with Irving, Wynne, and Greagoir – they needed to know about the incoming mages since Alistair would of course sign that contract. But they were likely the only ones capable of understanding just how… insane it was for a First Enchanter to destroy his own circle, use his own enchanters has fodder for blood magic, and engage in such heinous acts of destruction across an entire city.

He wanted to let some part of him feel a warmed by the fact that she'd simply signed it "yours". No quip, no additional rejoinder. Just…"yours". But it was the least appropriate time for such thoughts and certainly a stretch of the imagination to assume that she was making some declaration of affection. She was simply exhausted and worn thin by the duty now heaped on her shoulders. What she needed right now was his friendship and his support. Even while he could no longer fool himself into believing that this was just a simple friendship on his part – he was sure enough of what he wanted and increasingly his plans and desires circled around Marian – he also wouldn't do her the disservice of letting selfish emotion overtake him just now.

He knew he wanted her – in his life, in his arms, in his bed – but what she needed was a way through this mess. Maybe, once that was over, once she was clear of it, he could make his declarations with a clear conscience.

Alistair stowed the personal letter away with the others, kept in a heavily secured drawer in his desk, while he roused his guard for the short trip to Anora's estate in Denerim. He needed to go over the logistical points of this agreement with her and determine how best to handle this with the Chantry. He would not be taking this through Eamon, who would only argue against it. Anora, at least, would see the sense in this and simply work through the issues.

…

_Note: Sorry for the delay on this! I've been busy lately and also didn't have a backlog working for this as I completely restructured the story. This chapter is a little longer than usual as an olive branch. At least I didn't get any angry reviews demanding updates this time!_

_For those of you who'd been expecting this to swiftly go from no-explosion to happily ever after – uhm… sorry? Heh – we'll get there eventually! _


	26. Chapter 26

Hawke's toes had barely scraped the rubble-strewn floor of the cavern when she felt the rope give a sharp jerk, sending her spinning around on the wooden-plank seat and careening into the rough-hewn wall in front of her. Just as she was hauling in a lung full of air to launch a string of invective up toward the men holding the rope she realized she was being hauled upward again. Instead of waiting to figure out what new bit of confusion and chaos was happening, she simply wiggled out of the seat, dropping down to the floor as she watched the makeshift contraption yanked upward suddenly, the men obviously not expecting the change in weight. She didn't care what they were playing at – she'd just managed to convince them to let her down here in the first place – she wasn't going back until she was sure that others could come down here safely.

"Serrah Hawke! Serrah Hawke! Please answer! Are you alright my lady?!" The harried, gruff Ferelden voice called down to her. Though Hawke was annoyed enough to let him suffer, it wasn't really right. These workers from Darktown had been able and willing to do so much more than the Marchers had – often requesting only food and shelter for their families and little in the way of actual pay for their services. Plus, they worked like madmen, accomplishing far more in a day than the average Kirkwall worker – even those accustomed to the hard labor of the docks or the mines. She was Viscountess of Kirkwall now and she knew it would be seen as favoritism, but the proof was in the work and not just in her mind. Even Brann had been forced to admit that using the refugees from Darktown had been a fantastic solution to their sudden need for laborers.

"I'm fine, Sean! Just not ready to get hauled back up!"

"But, My Lady, Seneshal Brann told me to get you out of that hole."

"Then please tell the Seneshal that the Viscountess gave you an order and that, as far as you're aware, her orders supersede his."

There was a moment of silence as Hawke got her lamp lit and began casting around the small area she'd been lowered into to get a sense of what exactly was going on here.

"My Lady, I think the Seneshal heard you himself. He uh… well he don't seem pleased."

Hawke chuckled to herself as she began to move off deeper into the cavern.

Brann hadn't been pleased with her for a second of their acquaintance. Realizing he actually had to work with her and – oh the Maker has a sense of humor – be her subordinate… well that had put him into such an ill temper that he hadn't moved around the keep without slamming doors and slamming down books and ledgers for the first two weeks she'd been there. Once he realized that, when she asked him a question she was truly seeking his opinion and – further – that she often actually took his advice, he began to calm down. It hadn't stopped him from following her around like she was going to say or do something truly mortifying if he took his eyes off her for moment, but it had at least stopped what was building up to be a temper tantrum of epic proportions.

This had been their latest fight – her insistence that she be at the heart of the rebuilding effort. Brann's viewpoint was that she should be assuring the world that all was well, preparing for the promised visit from the Divine, and studying any and every law and clause he could dust off and shove in her face. Hawke's viewpoint was that sitting behind a desk wasn't going to actually get anything done and that she was more than qualified to coordinate efforts leading from the front. Especially when it came to the Ferelden workers they were using, she was a far better motivator than one of the Templars or the city guard. Many of those they'd enticed out of Darktown had an extremely dim view of anyone in a uniform – especially when those uniforms came with swords, truncheons, and the power to arrest them for any number of offences. In years past, Ferelden refugees were easy targets for all sorts of blame. She knew from experience that plenty of them were indeed involved in petty crime – but were often simply the ones left behind when the Coterie took off, using hapless people who needed money to feed their families as pawns to cover their own crimes.

Despite the fact that she truly believed what she told Brann, being involved in the daily work, hauling stone, clearing caverns, patrolling, and so on, ensured that she was always exhausted. She could lay down at night and not remember having fallen asleep. She was blessedly unaware of her dreams as well. No matter the mental fatigue she's sure she'd endure if Brann had his way, it would do nothing but give more for her brain to chew on. She'd be useless to everyone.

His concerns, however, were warranted, and Hawke wasn't being nearly as foolish as he thought. Their lack of mages in the city meant that there were few healers, physicians, or even midwifes. When the first of these caverns under Hightown was discovered, a group of men entered to investigate only to set off a further collapse, trapping and crushing them there. Two had survived the initial cave-in only to die from their injuries days later. It had been a huge blow to an already destitute level of morale and something she refused to see happen again. Stonesmiths from the Dwarven Merchant's Guild had been enlisted at an exorbitant fee to shore up sections of the city's foundations when new caverns were found – typically when some previously undamaged section of Hightown suddenly collapsed in on itself. So far there hadn't been any further accidents thanks to a staunchly controlled evacuation and only small groups of people allowed into the damaged sections of the city at a time, but Hawke had made a point to go into each new opening and sinkhole first. While she had no more know-how about these things than the workers, she saw their faces the first time she did it on what was simply an impulse to protect them. Seeing one of their countrymen first hand willing to risk her life for this city, risk her life for their safety – they were going to do anything they could to do as she asked, to make her proud.

What at first had been a gut instinct to go first, shield those workers from harm, had become more about the appearance of the thing. While Brann understood that, she was sure, he still disliked it immensely and tried to talk her out of it. He'd simply missed her sneaking out of the Keep today. Sneaking away from her own Seneshal – what a fine Viscountess she was…

This cavern was proving to be little more than an open area that had been completely caved in a very long time ago. She could walk no more than ten paces in any direction and the only indication that anything had ever been there in the first place was the fact that the stone of two of the walls was clearly hewn and shaped, laid there on purpose in blocks. The rest of it was simply caved in. She'd have to find out from the stonesmiths if they should backfill this in order to repair the street that had fallen inward, but there was no immediate danger as far as she could tell.

The first several of these cave-ins had necessitated that she, Fenris, and any Templars that were available, go in and kill off the demons and shades that haunted those long-forgotten ruins. If the Divine truly were sending a new contingent of Templars, they'd at least have something to do – ridding Kirkwall of the legacy of veil-thinning and blood magic that the Tevinters left in their wake would be a grand thing. Unlikely in the extreme that the Divine would actually put her Templars to useful work – but it was still a nice thought.

Hawke extinguished her lamp and wiggled her way back into the harness Sean had rigged up for her. A bare wood plank to sit on and a circle of rope that went tight across her hips was all it was, but it was miles better than trying to climb down a rope on her own in armor with equipment and supplies just in case something happened. Once situated she gave the rope two quick tugs and was swiftly hauled up and out of the hole, which was roughly as deep as most Hightown houses were tall, lending credence to the idea that it had been part of a structure that had simply been built over. As she emerged blinking into the sun, pulled over the edge by Sean's seemingly huge rough hands under her arms – it was a little like being a child, getting picked up by him – she was unsurprised to find Brann there waiting for her. Arms tight across his chest, hair mussed, looking slightly blotchy and extremely annoyed.

"Hello Seneshal, have you decided to get a bit of sun?"

"No, your Grace."

Hawke couldn't help but smile. Brann had a way of saying "your grace" that made it the direst insult. She used to enjoy riling the man up simply because she disliked him immensely. Now she did it because she was sure one of these days she'd get an honest smile out of him. It had been over a month they'd been at it, rarely out of each other's' presence for more than sleep and it hadn't happened yet – but she was nothing if not persistent.

As she began patting the dirt off of herself and removing her gauntlets, Hawke tried to forestall what she knew would be a litany of complaints. "Before you begin the lecture, Brann, a guardsman came in with a report of this new sinkhole and I thought it best to check it out immediately given its proximity to the keep proper. Had there been a larger system of tunnels we'd have had to get the smiths in there immediately to begin assessing any damage and what measures would have to be taken to keep the rest of hightown from falling in on itself."

"Something that could have been handled by the smiths themselves, your grace."

"Ah, but now we don't have to pay them for the consultation fee. I've saved us enough to get you another one of those fussy little doublets you so enjoy." She gave him her best winning smile. It failed to win him over. "I think a nice powder blue would highlight your colors nicely." She continued to smile and he continued to be nonplussed.

"Perhaps we could retire to your office, your grace, so that we may discuss the matters you need to attend to? Unless you'd prefer to continue to play in the dirt, that is."

"As much as I love to play in the dirt, Brann, I'll be a good little Viscountess for the rest of the day, just for you."

They began to walk back to the Keep together, shoulder to shoulder. Brann let out his best long suffering sigh, "Somehow I think that your definition and my definition of "good" are probably quite different, your grace."

"And that sort of perceptiveness is exactly why you excel as Seneshal, Brann." She smiled at him then – a real smile – and though he didn't return it he stayed there at her side, shoulders brushing as they took the steps up to her office.

….

Hours later, scrubbed, changed into a dress, and nearly hemmed in by paperwork and messages, Hawke had to admit to herself, yet again, that Brann was indeed a spectacular Seneshal. He knew who to let in to see her, who to keep away, and exactly how to push at her to accomplish what needed to happen. He'd learned at what points argument would help and at what points they were simply stalling tactics on her part. On one hand, she was sure that he should be Viscount and not just the person keeping the Viscount in check. On the other, he was absolutely terrible with people and Hawke had found that the last month had necessitated a great deal of speechmaking, glad handing, and morale building that she wasn't sure Brann would have been up for.

After trying for weeks to get her to assume the worst and not expect much, if any, outside support from the rest of the Free Marches, the evidence of his well-placed cynicism sat there on her desk. At least they'd written back – that's what she told herself. But no one in the Free Marches were willing to risk business with Kirkwall right now. Their responses seemed to indicate a level of vague unease at the prospect that she'd even offered. Perhaps they thought it was simply shock from the events that had happened that had caused her to offer better trade tariffs, exclusive relationships for textiles and manufacturing, and reduced premiums on silverite, the primary element pulled from the Bone Pit and several of the older mines in Kirkwall. Ostwick, Tantervale, Hasmal, Starkhaven, Ansburg, Hercinia, and Wycome – all of them had turned down extremely generous offers.

Surprisingly, Brandel's Reach – technically within the borders of Ferelden, but typically left to make its own deals and trade agreements as long as they didn't supersede those made by the crown – and Antiva had both been eager to trade with Kirkwall. Antiva was always in need of wood and the forests around Kirkwall provided very fine, very dense wood of a dark cherry hue that was quite prized by the artisans of Antiva. Brandel's Reach needed ores of any variety they could get for key pieces of their shipwrighting trade. But it wasn't enough.

She tried, desperately, to keep the disappointment off her face as she went over each rejection, but by the time she read through even the Governor of Hercinia's stilted, poorly worded dismissal she knew it would be impossible. It was one thing to know that the city was literally falling apart under their feet, to know that the nobility that voted her in were quickly coming to despise her now that they'd been ejected from their homes and were being told to live in Lowtown or go elsewhere until Hightown was secure. It was… expected. Nothing came easy – nothing this broken would ever be fixed without pain. But knowing just how little in resources the city coffer's had – how poorly managed it had all been under Meredith – and calculating just how long it would take to run through it all…It felt insurmountable. She needed hope – needed it desperately right now.

Finally, with the sun waning and Hawke's bright ideas, all of them long shots, completely torn to pieces under Brann's logic and the cold reception from her fellow city leaders, she was prepared to scream down the guardsmen who was acting as messenger when he showed up with another bag of correspondence. But there was that one remaining sliver, somewhere deep that hoped that perhaps one ally had not abandoned her.

Keeping the messenger where he was, she went through the usual ritual of sorting the mail. Everything that was addressed to anyone in the gallows and any of the guards went to her personally now. It was utterly restrictive and she was sure it was part of the growing murmurings about her being a tyrant – but she refused to allow anything damaging to slip through and into the wrong hands. Packages and letters sorted into three groups – hers, those that went to Aveline, those that went to Cullen, she dismissed the guard and quickly flipped through the correspondence she'd reserved for herself.

She found the personal letter first – marked with Alistair's personal seal – and was sure that she'd been getting her hopes up for nothing. Ferelden was in no condition to take on additional burdens. But then, there was another, larger bundle with the official seal of the crown of Ferelden and the sort of attached livery she'd only seen used on contracts. She nearly tore the parchment getting it open, her hands shaking as she dashed to the window for the last of the light to skim the agreement.

Ferelden would take the mages. The proposed rate for the grain and the livestock was well within what she'd hoped and even somewhat generous. For five years – Ferelden would give Kirkwall farmers work and purpose for five years. With the proposed rate they could pay for the improvements to understructure of the city and ensure that the poor didn't starve.

Everything else momentarily forgotten, Hawke whooped aloud, hitching up her skirts and running out of her office to find Brann.

"Brann! You gingery minx! Get your arse out here and hug me for being a genius and a saint!" Bolting across the gallery, ignoring the mixed group of guards and Templars looking stunned at her, she ran through the guards' quarters to the bunk she knew Brann had been sneaking off to when he could no longer pretend he didn't need to sleep. She was so excited when she finally saw him, groggily rubbing at his eyes and trying to tie his cravat back together that she just barreled into him, taking him directly to the floor and hugging him, beaming and utterly unconcerned about the group of men and women watching with amused expressions from the doorway.

"I did it! I actually did it!"

"Marian Hawke! Control yourself!" His tone was so shocked and haughty that for a moment it was as if she was being scolded by her father. It just threw her into a deeper fit of laughter as she sat up across his thighs and pushed the contract at him.

"Read it, Brann! Something went right!" and before she knew it, her laughter had become infected with tears, her smile wavering, chin quivering. Choked with emotion, she spat out again "Something – finally- something went right."

Brann held the parchment between then almost as a shield, looking completely flummoxed at what he was supposed to do with a crying Hawke. Angry, flippant, morose, giddy, despondent – in a very short time he'd become adept at dealing with a great array of her moods. But tears, sobbing, slumping to the floor to the side of him as she was now and hiding her face in her hands… he didn't think she was capable of it. Now that she was no longer pinning him to the ground, he quickly scrambled over to the door, shutting out the guards who had been watching.

But he almost needn't have bothered. As quickly as the storm had begun it seemed to be subsiding. Marian was pushing herself up to a seated position, crossing her legs under her and wiping at her face. She looked up at him, feeling and looking sheepish. "I'm sorry, Brann. I'm just so… relieved."

Brann had the look of a man who was sure that this was a trick.

"I'm fine – really." Marian sniffed hard one more time and dried her face on her sleeve as she stood. "Can you make sure that that's filed correctly and that we do whatever is necessary to start getting the Merchant's guild to organize the farmsteads and how the exports need to be divided?" At his rather dumbfounded nod, she nodded back. "Right, thank you, Brann. It's been a long day, I'll likely retire soon – I just have a few more things I need to read through. You needn't trouble yourself. Get some rest."

She swept back out of the room looking… dignified. If not for her red rimmed eyes, she looked just as vaguely amused and indomitable as she always did.

Brann slumped back down to the bed and mumbled to himself. "Maker that woman is going to send me to an early pyre."

…..

Hawke made a point of being disciplined, reading through the other correspondence she had to get through before moving to Alistair's letter. Normally she'd have seen the increase in the price he was willing to negotiate for as pity – but frankly she just didn't care what had caused it. It would keep her people fed. Maker – even thinking that made her stomach flip. "Her people". These people that she'd never wanted to lead, never even wanted to be considered one of. She'd been forced here just as surely as she'd been forced into her role as Champion. Another title she didn't want, another set of obligations, another duty to usurp anything that could be counted as her own decisions. She had thought for a few moments there when the fighting was over, before the Templars went to their knees in front of her, before Meredith's corpse had cooled or her own blood had stopped dripping down her temple and tickling her neck that she could walk away, that she might finally have…

There was no point in thinking about it. It hadn't happened. It likely never would at this point. She had a city to care for and she would drag them, every last screaming, red faced, utterly ungrateful one of them along with her through this mess. It put her in mind of the Arishok suddenly. Would it just be a matter of time until someone slit her throat because she dared to make these people work for their own salvation?

She needed air. Strapping her weapon belt on over her dress, daggers dangling at her hips, she took Alistair's letter with her out of the keep. She knew a few of the guards would detach themselves from their posts and follow her – Brann's orders, not to be disobeyed no matter how much the Viscountess protested – but they knew that she could handle herself and that they should stay well back from her or face, at minimum, a scolding, at most a new bruise for their meddling. Frankly, being her personal guard was something of a coveted position these days. They hardly had to fight at all and the biggest hardship was just how often she slipped their notice and the frantic search that ensued until she decided to let them shadow her again.

Not in the mood for games tonight, she headed right down the stairs of the keep and to the door of the Amell estate. What was left of the Amell estate. She hadn't bothered to lock it back up after she'd removed the few things she wanted to keep from the place. Thankfully, Bodhan and Sandal had been at the market, coaxing Orana out of the house and introducing her to the stall keepers who she could make orders with when the explosion destroyed the place. The guards waited outside the front entrance, knowing she wouldn't get far. The entryway was still intact, but scant feet beyond the threshold into the main sitting room the floor simply fell away. As near as the dwarven engineers could tell, a chunk of the ceiling had been caved in from falling debris – a piece of statuary blown clear of the Chantry – and the floor just couldn't take the impact. It had fallen in and away, down through the many sub-levels of the basement to land roughly just outside the doors of what had been Ander's clinic. The room now was simply walls with a gaping chasm at its center.

She sat herself against the threshold to the room, leaning her back against one side of the opening and stretching her legs out across it as she looked up at the night sky through the hole above her. It was the most she'd liked the place in years, honestly.

Turning her attention finally to the letter, reading by moonlight, Hawke let out a long breath that felt heavier than air could possibly be and began to read.

…

Marian –

I cannot express how relieved I am to hear from you directly. I'd been able to get a little information about the situation there, of course, but even Varric wouldn't share anything about you personally beyond the facts of your new station and duties. I can only imagine how difficult this must all be for you – I can't pretend to know exactly how you feel – but I also have to say that Cullen would have been foolish to bypass the opportunity to have your leadership and skills working with him in rebuilding after the devastation you described.

The contract you provided was more than generous. So much so, that I didn't feel it was fair and provided a higher price for the goods Kirkwall would send us. Please know that I did this to ensure that the deal remains in place and uncontested even if you are no longer Viscountess at the end of five years. It's also a good faith gesture since I know that others in the Free Marches are unlikely to trade with you right now. My experiences there attempting to get them to accept even simple trade agreements that wouldn't have been a burden at all to them and nearly utterly unfair to Ferelden showed me that the Free Marches – though ostensibly a collection of city-states that work in cooperation – work on the principle of their own needs first and foremost, cooperation be damned. It was probably presumptuous of me, but I assumed similar contracts had likely gone out to others – it's what I would have done. I wanted to ensure that at least one of those came back to you in the positive – though I've no doubt your powers of persuasion garnered at least a few more.

We are in a state of change here in Ferelden when it comes to the circle. I have broached the idea – and it's largely been accepted – of breaking away from the Chantry. I've attempted this once before, making the announcement at Solona's funeral. I was obviously emotional and I hadn't thought through all the implications. The Chantry dismissed it as the ramblings of someone choked with grief and swiftly ignored it as if it hadn't happened. I'm no longer so naïve to think that I can simply wave my hand and make something like that happen. However, I have the support of the Knight-Commander and the First Enchanter as well as a great many of their Templars. The way I see it, the mages you will send me can only bolster the support for the concept, having seen the worst of what Chantry control can push mages toward.

While the events in Kirkwall have certainly given me this opportunity, I also know that this is simply a promise fulfilled to what is, oddly enough, your extended family. Solona rarely openly spoke against the Chantry, but I know that she felt the system was unfair, restrictive, and that it actually created more issues than it solved. I swore to her at the time that she was pushing me into accepting the fact that I was next in line for the throne that I would do some good with the role. Improving the lives of mages is one of the simplest and obvious goals I've ever set for myself. Hearing from circle mages, apostates and those, like you, who were simply related to apostates, I can't in good conscience continue to do nothing about the situation. Not after what Solona did for me, what she did for all of Thedas, especially when she had no true reason to care beyond the kind of person we desperately needed to fight the blight.

If you would rather not place the Kirkwall mages into another potentially tricky situation, I completely understand. I could recommend another circle, but I'm afraid there are few stable circles to be had. I received word just today that there are murmurs of unrest in even the Orlais circle. As much as I hate to say it, I believe that Ferelden may be the last safe place for mages in Thedas for now. Fereldens in general aren't paragons of forward thinking, necessarily – but they remember and respect who saved their hides when they needed saving and Greagoir and Irving have gone through their share of upheaval and harrowing experiences. No pun intended.

I know you haven't asked for my advice, but I feel like it would be remiss of me not to share at least a few of the things I've learned. It's not as if there are newly minted monarchs without a lick of sense about what they are doing with that crown on their head lining up to hear what I have to say, after all. You may be the only person in Thedas who could truly appreciate my point of view. Beyond that – I want to give you something and my paltry words are all I really have to give at the moment.

If you have sent out contracts and they've been ignored or rebuffed – don't fall to pieces over it. Some will reject them simply because you're new to this. It's a test. You pass that test by sending them right back with a more sternly worded note pointing out what they obviously misread or failed to understand on their first reading. Do not let them ignore you – not now, not so early in this transition. Teach them that letters with your seal are not just worth opening but, more than that, they'd be fools to ignore them. Do not threaten them, not openly, but do not doubt that they are waiting for you to portray weakness that they can exploit.

When it comes to those you count on to work with you – your Seneshal, your guards, servants if you have them – remember that they are your employees. They aren't beneath you, but they are there to provide a service. If they do not follow through on that service, they can't be let off the hook. Develop a reputation as a soft touch and the number of things you find yourself doing for yourself when you're paying someone else for it would double overnight. I'm sure I needn't tell you this, but those in your employ need to be charmed just as much as those you are attempting to bargain with.

Everything should happen behind closed doors. From praise to stern words – no one should see anything of you that you do not plan for them to see. I struggle with this myself and frankly dislike that level of dishonesty and subterfuge, but I've learned the lesson of being too open with my thoughts, my feelings. I wouldn't want to see you fall into the same trap.

Most importantly – guard yourself. You will never want for those who want to dance to your tune, sit at your table, pepper you with praise. Choose your friends carefully, Marian. I believe that Fenris and Sebastian will not stray and will remain true to you – I'm not saying you need to cast them out. But know that as much as you were on display before, you're even more so now. Guard yourself from friend and foe alike. Guard your heart. Do not be taken in. I've learned that the hard way and discovering that someone you trusted has been your enemy all along is destructive in a way that I can't quite describe.

Finally – I know that you did not want this. I know that it would be very easy to see this as a punishment – Maker knows I saw my own crowning that way. I can't tell you not to feel that way. But I know, Marian, that you are what that city needs. You have a path, a vision, and most of all the will to see it through. Do not allow the difficulties I am sure you are facing every day to wear that away. Do not doubt yourself. You have no reason to. You are one of the strongest women I've ever known and that strength is more than just a tool or weapon. You are a natural leader, made for great endeavors and deeds. I know that the work of rebuilding that city will tear away at your confidence. When you are unsure, when you wonder if you're on the right path, follow your instincts. And if that doesn't work, ask me. I will always be here as your strength should you need it and I will never lie to you.

And Marian – remember to breathe.

Yours –

Alistair

….

Hawke ran her finger over that last word… "Yours"… as if she could feel the texture of it, the weight of it with her fingertips. Her throat felt tight, burning. She'd already lost herself once today, she refused to do it again – but, Maker, the tears were there. He'd managed to get right to the quick of what she needed without even being here. She felt compressed, heavy, with the weight of it – that man all those miles away knowing her mind so well. She was sure she was beginning to forget the sound of his voice, the color of his eyes, finding it harder all the time to conjure up those sweet little confections she'd indulged in. Walks in the country, the Ferelden moors just before the rain, Alistair bumping her shoulder at the punchline of some awful joke he couldn't stop himself from smiling through.

There wouldn't be enough space or time for that type of daydreaming for quite a while to come and it was better not to ache for it. Heaving in a lung stretching breath that she let out slowly, she folded the letter back up and cast her eyes around the lifeless hole that had been the Amell estate. It felt… appropriate. The last of the Amell line was swiftly dying out – Solona's parents, Gamlen… Charade she supposed as well had taken the name. She felt no connection to that family at all. Brann had been making the argument that she should use her mother's family name to bolster her claim to the Viscountess seat - the scion of the Amell family that had held it for so long and through such a prosperous period in the city's history. She'd been holding out – insisting that her name was Marian Hawke, not Amell. But perhaps it was time to give in to that as well.

In her heart, she'd always be Malcolm Hawke's daughter. But her heart, well, that had no bearing on the situation, did it? Her heart was clearly elsewhere. Hawke found herself running her thumb across the parchment in her hand, unthinkingly caressing the thing as she stood there on the edge of the pit that fell away toward Darktown.

"Hawke – I would feel better if you'd back away from that." Fenris's voice rumbled low, close and quiet. Even when was somewhere where he shouldn't be, watching her when he shouldn't be, she couldn't be surprised.

Hawke turned to look over her shoulder at him as he stepped forward out of the shadows. "How long have you been here?"

"I came in just after you did. You seem… distracted."

One corner of her mouth hitched up momentarily – a poor excuse for even an attempt at a smile – "I suppose I am. "

Fenris was quiet for a long moment before stepping closer, placing his hand on her shoulder "Let me walk with you back to the Keep?"

Hawke nodded and turned, gesturing at the door with one hand. "Of course. I could probably do with the company." As they began to step out into the dark and silent street, her guards coming to attention at her appearance, Hawke slipped her hand into Fenris's and laced her fingers through his. Without looking at her, he immediately squeezed her hand and kept it, staying linked all the way up the long stairs to the keep.


	27. Chapter 27

Hawke got on with the business of rebuilding – first and foremost there was the issue that Divine arrived in the city, far sooner than was expected. It was what they'd all been waiting for, but when they didn't show up the first month and then not in the second month, she'd begun to believe that hperhaps they'd get away with this afterall. The mages and Templars had been sent off to Ferelden weeks ago with a letter but into the ranking officer's hand that would allow him clear passage and official sanction to take the mages to the tower in Ferelden. She and Alistair had exchanged letters, but all of it had been official in nature – official consent, official acceptance, official notice – she couldn't bring herself to answer his personal letter. She had clung to it like a child to a favorite toy but had no words for what it meant to her. Anything she wrote back would be paultry and anemic compared to how she felt. Either better words would have to be invented or she'd have to wait and tell him in person. And the likelihood of her seeing him anytime soon was so remote that she might as well just wait for someone to invent telepathy.

It wasn't the Divine that appeared, it was her envoy. Not the same one she'd met before, not Lelianna – but an officious little shit of a woman that would have given Brann a run for the title of most annoying underling had Hawke not recently decided that Brann was alright. He still did far too much heavy sighing and eye rolling at her for her liking, but it was loads better than the bland dismissal she'd become accustomed to in years previous. Besides, at least he never hid his contemptuousness in the increasingly rare times it rose. He may just be the most honest man in Kirkwall these days. Everyone else was scared of her or far too willing to agree with her as long as they didn't have to be the one making the hard decisions.

The Templars and a contingent of officials of the Chantry arrived thunderously in Hightown, plate armor cacophonous in the eerie quiet of the place while the whole area was still under martial law. A red-faced guard flung open her office door, panting out that the Divine was there, sputtering about how the guards had attempted to stop them and escort them safely but that they'd pushed right past with no explanation and simply headed toward Hightown. Hawke, who'd been up since Dawn, redrafting letters to those city-states that had brushed her off previously with Brann cast her eyes toward her Seneshal. They shared a dark look – as much as they disagreed, they were of a singular mind when it came to the Divine and the presence of Chantry officials in the city at this fragile juncture – before she pushed to her feet and smoothed out her dress.

"Well then we will go and meet them. Please ask the Knight Commander and the Guard Captain to meet me in the throne room immediately."

The guard, happy to have direction, scuttled away, armor clanking as he bolted across the gallery toward Aveline's office.

"The throne room?" Brann arched an eyebrow at her.

"She's going to throw around her weight, I'm going to throw around mine." Hawke shot over her shoulder as she reached into the cabinet next to her desk and withdrew the circlet of office. She hadn't worn it since the brief ceremony where she'd officially been named the Viscount, despite Brann insisting in that first week that it was necessary. She placed it on her head now, felt it dig in to the skin of her forehead as the cold metal swiftly warmed up. Turning, she smoothed her hair back, quirking an eyebrow back at Brann by way of question. He swept her from head to toe with his eyes and then back up again and gave her a quick nod. She looked appropriately official, if out of fashion for Kirkwall in her Ferelden dress of deep emerald green. But it brought out the greens in her multi-colored eyes and reminded anyone who cared to look that she wasn't just any woman – not beholden to the whims of fashion, not cowed by the expectations of women in the Free Marches. She was a force to be reckoned with. He found himself wishing she'd wear the circlet more often – it made her instantly more difficult to argue with and he knew he'd done more than enough of that. Her hair had grown long and she nearly always wore it down now as she rarely needed to be prepared to fight. The change shouldn't have been striking – but it was. Something as simple as letting her hair flow long over her shoulders and upper back in such an a carefree manner added to some mystique, some sense of power.

Brann watched as Hawke took a deep breath, hand on the door handle, before decisively opening it and walking at a stately and calm pace toward the throne room. Brann was well aware of the fact that she had a correspondence with the king of Ferelden. He hadn't realized, however, just how affected she would be by whatever it was he'd last sent her. The change in her outward demeanor had been remarkable in last several weeks. When asked about it directly, she claimed that the contracts from Antiva and Ferelden had simply calmed her and that the lack of further cave-ins made her sure they could begin rebuilding soon, getting Hightown populated again. And her lies were so calmly delivered that he'd almost believed them until he caught her absentmindedly fingering a bundle of papers on her desk. Further inspection – snooping, if he were honest – revealed the personal letter from King Alistair, already folded and unfolded many times if the softness of the creases were any indication. He didn't read the letter, of course, simply confirmed who it was from and that it was addressed to her in an informal manner.

Lately she was just as annoyed when things went wrong, just as surly in the mornings, just as petulant in getting her way, make no mistake – the changes hadn't been _that_ dramatic – but she was also more centered, far more willing to simply stop and listen and think through his recommendations. The fact that he hadn't even had to push her to try again with her contracts was startling enough – having her actually ask his opinion on the wording was… somewhat miraculous. Not to mention the biggest change of all – she'd taken to using her mother's name. Marian Amell was truly a different woman. Perhaps he owed the King of Ferelden a gift. Or perhaps not. As much as it made his daily life easier to deal with her these past few weeks, he also… Maker save him… almost missed Hawke as she had been. Maybe accepting her role as Visciountess as a reality to be dealt with for the long haul had tamped down on something in her. The fact that he found himself caring at all was most troubling. How she got through the day mattered not all – she simply needed to get through it. And then the next day and the next.

He stood to the right of the throne as she settled herself and called out to the Guard Captain and the Knight-Commander as they arrived.

"Hawke – why are we meeting in here? I thought you hated this room."

"Oh make no mistake, Aveline, I do. But the Divine's envoy will surely hate it just as much."

Cullen stiffened at that. "It would be unwise to bait them, my Lady."

"I agree, and that is why we're meeting here. They're dealing with the Viscountess of Kirkwall. I'm being as honest as I possibly can be with this gesture."

Aveline rolled her eyes at Hawke, a liberty in insubordination that neither Hawke nor Aveline seemed to think twice about, but straightened up, standing to the left of the throne with Cullen as they waited for the inevitable intrusion of the Divine. Hawke had been preparing herself for what could possibly be a very difficult encounter since the idea that the Divine might send agents was first raised. There was the fact that, under the watch of the people currently in this room, the Chantry and the circle had been destroyed. There was also the fact that Hawke had made no attempt at all in rebuilding the circle. It still sat there, a heap of rubble at its center. The stones had been moved away only to recover the corpses for a mass pyre but otherwise it was all undisturbed. In sending the mages and most of the Templars off to Ferelden, Hawke had more or less disbanded the circle and whether she actually had the authority to do that was something she and Cullen had been unable to discern. There was no precedent for this – no bylaw, no little-known clause. And that was largely because the so-called laws surrounding the Chantry weren't laws at all. They were traditions at best and honestly closer to whims of whatever group of Templars happened to be in charge at the time. Whole books had been written in the attempt to track the changes in the laws of the Chantry from age to age and they were all of them incomplete and speculative.

Cullen had been sure that she couldn't dissolve the circle but he'd been unable to tell her why. They'd talked each other in circles about the whole thing, going back and forth for days, not really arguing, but certainly never coming to an accord. She respected Cullen a great deal, both for his actions during the fight with Meredith and because of the little he'd told her about his experiences in the Ferelden circle.

Learning that he'd been there in the room when Solona had been put through her harrowing, that he'd been tasked with cutting her down should she emerge possessed, well, that had been incredibly uncomfortable. Especially since it was clear to Hawke that Cullen didn't simply know of Solona – he'd had some level of affection for her. Realizing that he'd possibly been pining away for her own cousin for years while he dealt with her was unsettling. And he'd never spoke a word of it, never told her before just how he'd come to be in Kirkwall in the first place. That conversation had clearly been difficult for him, but it just filled her with annoyance. How could a man who felt that way about a mage, even if the romantic undertones she was sure she read were not true and they'd simply been friendly… how could he have come to Kirkwall, followed Meredith's restrictive rule and never once openly questioned or defied her until the very end?

While she had never truly harbored hatred toward Templars – her father had been clear her whole life that they were simply people who thought they were doing what needed to be done – she did find it difficult to wholly sympathize with the loose ends he now found himself at. He had no circle to command, no mages to protect, no enemy from within or without to stand vigilant against. She understood his frustration. However, she also found it frustrating that he had never questioned his role in all of this – even after the tower fell in Ferelden and he was tortured by demons for fun.

She knew he was brighter than that. And maybe that's what the issue was – not that he was overly obedient or thoughtless in his adherence to duty but that he had so much faith. Faith was an alien concept to Hawke. How could someone be so clear in their sense of right and wrong? Duty she understood – being tasked with something that must be done. Morality didn't enter into it and neither did personal feelings. But Cullen not only did what he was tasked to do, he truly believed that what he did was right, just.

She found herself envying him just as much as she pitied him.

She could hear guards in the outer gallery coming to attention, the clatter of plate armor like a stampede of pots making its way toward her position. They'd arrived. Casting one last look at Brann for – reassurance perhaps, maybe some sense that she wasn't alone here – he gave her a barely perceptible nod, his countenance stern. If he was going to stand with her in this, she could get through it. His immovability had been an annoyance to her for quite a long time but now she found herself needing it. If she were going to be pushed into a corner, he'd be the wall at her back, holding her up.

The Divine's envoy was tiny, like an oversized child's toy of a chantry sister all scaled down. At first glance it would be easy to assume she was an elf with her huge eyes, miniaturized figure, and pinched features. As she cast her eyes around the throne room in obvious disapproval it was clear, however, that no – this was a human woman. The waves of annoyance that came off of her felt palpable and the Templars around her seemed to feel it, shaking ever so slightly in her presence. Hawke had seen blood mages summoning waves of demons and shouting obscenities incite less fear than this little creature. When the woman finally deigned to look at Hawke directly her eyes narrowed, the hands she hand laced together in front of her went white knuckled and her already puckered mouth sucked in just a bit more. Then they waited.

Hawke refused to acknowledge her first. She'd read over the rules on courtly manners. She knew damned well that in a case like this where a visitor was showing up unannounced they were to start, ask for entry, and give some sign of obeisance. Only then should the Viscount acknowledge them. Of course most countries and city-states were exactly the opposite – no one spoke until the ruler spoke. But she wasn't the ruler of another city-state or country and someone who was coming here for only what Hawke thought of as Bad Reasons was going to stand and suffer until they figured it out. By the book, totally officially, letter of the law. She'd been playing cards with people for money since she was little more than a child. She'd been staring down and waiting out people who wanted to do her or her family harm since she was in single digits. Making a chantry official uncomfortable in a throne room was hardly a challenge.

It took longer than she'd expected and the woman had darted her eyes again and again to Brann, obviously waiting for him to intervene. Thankfully, the Seneshal knew better – Hawke didn't even have to look to know that this woman would find no assistance there.

By the time she did finally speak up, she'd developed a head of anger, practically shouting into the ringing silence of the room, "Your Grace – I am here of behalf of the Divine of Orlais and ask that we be received in a manner that befits the authority of the Chantry."

Hawke's smile was immediate, bland, and obviously false. "Of course, my lady. If you would be so kind as to introduce yourself and explain your presence in the city I would be happy to determine exactly how you should be received."

The knuckles on her hands went even whiter, her fingers red with trapped blood. Through her teeth she bit out. "I am mother Clotilde. I am here as a representative of the Divine herself. I am here in this place in order to determine what has befallen the Grand Cleric and why the leadership here has done nothing about it."

Hawke inclined her head in a slight nod. "Then I can make this simple for you and you can be on your way. The first enchanter, Orsino, destroyed a portion of the Gallows and the Chantry with some sort of explosive device. Everyone in the Chantry, including the grand cleric, was killed. Knight Commander Meredith invoked the Right of Annulment and the circle was annulled. She was unfortunately killed in the fighting. Knight Commander Cullen, " here, Hawke waved a hand at him, "has been elevated in her stead. The remaining few mages were transported to a circle where they could be properly housed with their Templar guards."

There was a long moment of silence before either of them spoke again. And it was Hawke who took the initiative. "Is there anything else you need, mother Clotilde, or may we get on with the process of correcting the ills that the circle has left us with?"

"You can explain, your grace, why word was not immediately sent to the Divine about this and why the secular authorities decided instead to report a ridiculous story about the Knight Commander herself inciting this violence."

Hawke turned her head just slightly to catch Cullen's eye, nodding to him to give him permission to speak. The poor man, nearly shaking with nerves, cleared his throat. "Mother Clotilde, I personally sent a message to the Divine with an accurate account of the events within hours of the transition of power from the former Knight Commander to myself. It was and is the truth as far as we are able to understand it."

Mother Clotilde thrust a hand out to one of her guards and a bundle of papers was placed in her hand. She flipped through the sheets until she found what she was looking for. "You claim, Knight Commander, that former Knight Commander Meredith was stripped of her rank because she attempted to kill the Champion of Kirkwall – now Viscount. She then began to attack all in the courtyard en-masse, displaying powers that you yourself say here could only be the work of magic." Clotilde cast her huge, cat-like eyes up at Cullen. "Is this true?"

"Yes, it is true, Mother Clotilde. We believe Meredith's… abilities, her possession, and likely her paranoia over the last year or more was directly caused by exposure to a relic made of red lyrium that was found in an ancient dwarven Thaig and fashioned into the pommel of Meredith's service sword."

Mother Clotilde shook her head in a pitying way. "And you did not even investigate what mage must have ensorcelled her? This behavior from a Templar and you simply call it a closed case based on the fact that she is dead? What you describe is blood magic, young man, plain and simple. It's something you should be bright enough to detect and concerned enough to track down. The fact that you haven't," here the Mother's eyes swung to Hawke, "Or that you've been somehow persuaded not to, is a dereliction of your duty to the maker, the chantry, and this city."

"Mother Clotilde, I take exception to the idea that Knight Commander Cullen and the rest of the officials in this room did not take all of the action we could in the situation." Hawke's voice did not rise in pitch but there was a new and dangerous undertone to her words.

"It is not up to you to decide what should be done in this situation, your grace. This is the responsibility of the Chantry and, as its representative here, me. Without a Grand Cleric in place, the Chantry here needs guidance as do the remaining Templars."

Hawke simply locked eyes with the Reverend Mother for a long moment before she smiled again. Wide and disarming in a way that made Cullen look at her twice before it really registered. He'd seen her with that look on her face before and, though there was something wrong about the eyes, it felt just as warm as it had then in the Gallows courtyard, joking with him quietly. "I will provide you and your guard with appropriate lodgings. As long as you coordinate your comings and goings with Hightown with the city guard in order to maintain the curfew and control of access, you have free reign to go where you need when you need to. Also, the guard captain will ensure full cooperation from her soldiers for anything you may need them for."

Mother Clotilde darted her eyes around the room for a moment as if not quite believing she'd just heard correctly and looking for guidance or verification from those around her. Then her eyes narrowed again, the shrewd look adding years to her face and making Hawke wonder just how old the seemingly young woman was. "And your office, your grace? Will you cooperate?"

"Of course I will, Mother." Hawke's eyebrows drew together, making her look almost forlorn. "I am troubled that you would even feel the need to ask as I have done nothing to warrant such distrust. My doors are open to you and my staff is at your disposal during your stay in the city."

Mother Clotilde nodded at this, seeming satisfied and had just opened her mouth to speak again when Hawke interrupted her. "You do raise an interesting point, however. May I expect an agreement in kind?"

"Your grace? I'm not sure I understand your meaning."

Hawke leaned forward slightly in the throne, hands laced together with her elbows resting just at the edges of each arm. "I mean, Mother Clotilde, will you, as the representative of the Chantry and the will of the Divine cooperate with the office of the Viscountess of Kirkwall, abide by the laws of this city, and interact fairly and justly with its citizens during your stay here?"

Mother Clotilde's mouth opened once, twice, before shutting with a popping sound as her eyes tried to decipher something in Hawke's face. "The Chantry has always abided by local laws and worked with the leadership of any country or city in which we are located."

Smiling again and leaning back in the throne, Hawke sighed slightly "And that was the evasive answer I had expected from you, Mother Clotilde. You may leave."

Sensing that some misstep had been made that she hadn't been expecting, Mother Clotilde took a step forward, "Your grace, I simply meant tha-"

"I know what you meant, Mother Clotilde. There is no need to explain further. I believe we both understand each other as well as may be possible. Guard Captain Aveline's men will guide you to your housing." Hawke raised her head, eyes going to the far end of the room as if the Chantry Mother had evaporated. After only a moment more of hesitation, Mother Clotilde clenched her hands into fists at her sides and turned, stalking back down the long gallery toward the doors with her clanking guard in tow.

Once the doors were shut behind her, Aveline turned toward Hawke. "Why in the Maker's name did you bait her like that?"

"Like what, Aveline? I asked a simple question."

"You know that's not what you just did, Hawke."

Marian let a mischievous smirk quirk up the corner of her mouth. "Isn't it? Well, you know how bad I am at reading people in political situations. Must have simply been a misunderstanding?"

Aveline shook her head and let out an angry huff. "And just where am I supposed to house them? Hightown is still off limits and Lowtown is packed to the rafters."

"Chuck them into a pit in Darktown for all I care, Aveline."

"Hawke!"

"Don't "Hawke" me. They're here to pull down and tear apart what little bit of peace we've managed to instill the last few months. I'm not going to allow that to happen. If that means that I upset some snide Chantry mother in the process of holding together an entire city-state then I call it a price well worth paying."

"Your grace, she isn't just a Chantry mother – she's here as a representative of the Divine. The Orlesian Chantry can bring down a great deal of suffering upon the city should they see the need to." Cullen's voice was calm, quiet, but Hawke could see the tension in the lines of his face. It made her feel deflated to bring the man more stress than he already had.

Hawke slumped down in the throne, feeling ridiculous for being there all of a sudden. "I know, Cullen, I know that. But she won't because there is no reason to. We have nothing to hide – not a single one of us. And frankly, I'd rather her ire - which she'll invent, reasons for it or not – be directed at me, not at you, and not at Aveline, and certainly not at the city as a whole. They've been through enough."

Cullen bowed his head as she spoke and didn't raise it as he nearly whispered "It's too much - you shouldn't have to take it on. What happened was far more my responsibility than it was yours, your grace. My… failings… should not become your burdens."

Hawke went to him then, placing a hand on his upper arm, though she knew he wouldn't feel it through his armor. "Cullen, everything in this city is my burden. Every ounce of its past and every ounce of its future. It doesn't matter what should or should not be – we have to deal in terms of what is. And what is happening right now is that we are struggling to make strides. That woman represents something that would bring that progress to a halt and make us sift through rubble of our collective failings for… evidence, justification...and those are things that simply do not matter to me. Not now. I… " Hawke faltered and took a deep breath and Cullen finally looked up at her. Staring back into his eyes she patted her hand against his arm. "I will not allow anyone – not the Chantry, not other City-states, not other countries, not even Kirkwall's own people – to get in the way of making this right. I know your trust has been sorely tested time and again. I will never – NEVER – test it again. Allow yourself to stay clear of the repercussions and do not intervene. Do your duty as a Templar. And I will do mine as a Viscountess. Somewhere in between this city will find its peace."

Cullen's armored hand covered hers for a moment, trapping her skin in steel on both sides as he gently squeezed her wrist.

…..

Back in her office, slumped deeply into her chair, circlet of office tossed haphazardly onto her desk, Hawke stared blankly into space until her vision was obscured by a proffered drink.

"I thought you could use that now that your bravado is spent."

Taking the glass from Brann, Hawke sat forward and rested her elbows on her desk. "I think you underestimate the truly awesome depths of my bravado."

Her seneschal settled in across the desk from her, taking a sip of his own glass and rolling it between his hands. "No, I don't think I do. I think everyone else overestimates it. And worse, assume that it's iron-clad and impenetrable."

Hawke shrugged. She was in no mood for Brann's – annoyingly accurate – dissections of her personality.

"Did you mean what you said?"

"What thing that I said? I talk a lot, you know."

"That you do." Brann took another long sip. "What you said to Cullen. Did you mean it?"

Hawke took a drink – he'd poured her whiskey instead of that insipid weak brandy he seemed to prefer, he must be in something of a mood – "Yes, I did. Believe it or not, I have a nasty habit of speaking my mind."

Instead of the usual half snide remark that she would have expected, Brann simply slowly nodded looking thoughtful. She was not in a state of mind to decipher him this evening. While her confrontation with the Divine's agent had been something of a non-starter as her type of fights generally went, it had been exhausting in its own way. The rest of the day after that had felt pregnant with potential discord like heavy clouds on the horizon just waiting to split open. Of course nothing had happened. She'd received a rather vague note from Varric asking that she find her way to his office when she could and she'd snuck off with Fenris for a walk through the gardens and a brief lunch. Frankly it was getting more and more difficult to remember that there was a whole living breathing city out there beyond the walls of the Keep, so little had she visited it. Orana had settled in as a sort of maid for the guards as a whole while Hawke continued to live in the Keep and that slice of every day normalcy was both a stark reminder of how different things were and a little bit of familiarity.

She knew Brann was studying her as she looked down into her glass. He wasn't half as sneaky as he thought he was.

She would visit Varric tonight – likely going out through a lower passage in her leathers, avoiding the doors altogether so she could arrive in Lowtown unannounced. Then she would write back to Alistair. Maker – just thinking of the man made something in his chest ache. Like she wanted to cry and smile at the same time. And she'd ignored his letter for nearly a month, let their correspondence grow cold while she pretended to herself that she was simply too busy. She didn't think she'd ever be too busy or too preoccupied or too… anything… for thoughts of Alistair to stop her cold.

Decisions made, she rose and slammed back the rest of her drink. "I think I'll do some reading and then retire for the evening Brann. You should do the same."

Brann nodded at her, distracted and still obviously thinking something over. She didn't wait around for him to snap out of it and instead headed to the little room that had been put aside for her out of the main guard barracks – Brann had finally put his foot down about her accommodations – with no intention at all of reading and every intention of getting out of the Keep as sneakily as possible.

As she pulled on what Varric referred to as her "thief armor" – black leathers, blackened metal buckles, soft footed boots – she played through what she could possibly say to Alistair to explain her lack of a response to him. "I just forgot" would hardly hold water. The fact that he hadn't written back meant that he either was just as busy as she was or that he had – and that her dwarven friend had managed to keep the letters from her. Well, she'd find out soon enough.

As she pulled the hood up over her head and flexed her fingers in their gloves Hawke felt a smile bloom across her face in a way that felt nearly foreign. She hadn't been free to roam in months. It felt long overdue; some stolen piece of her former self. And she was going to relish it.

...

This is another transition chapter. Perhaps one more of these to join together the story I had already written with this new/ different tact I decided to take with the events in Kirkwall at the last moment. And I promise not to have a two week wait for the next chapter. Storms, Halloween, and some pressing work projects conspired to sap my braining juice for these pieces of the story. Almost through and to the point of having a healthy backlog again!


	28. Chapter 28

Alistair sat in the royal box that had been built at the top of the scaffolding erected in the main courtyard of the palace. Ostensibly he was there to watch the tournament being held in celebration of the end of the blight and overall he was, but not as enthusiastically as he had the previous year. He'd still been eager to put on a good face, be the thing he was expected to be. Lately he was far less willing to simply play his role obediently. More and more of his true feelings were leaking out over the last several months and this occasion brought them streaming to the fore. Beyond the fact that the end of the blight also marked the death of Solona – something he'd never fully gotten beyond the guilt of – there was simply no joy in these proceedings for him. In the box with him the various Arls, Arlessas, Banns, and the single Teyrn in attendance were jolly making enough to more than make up for his own dour mood. For him, it was a day of mourning, a day for solemnity, a day that lived in Alistair's mind as the time when the last of his boyishness was stripped away from him. He'd carried Solona's body down through Fort Drakon and laid her on a stretcher in a cart that he never strayed far from the rest of that day, even as Eamon tried to pull him away to begin the process of installing him as king.

Looking down now at the young men bashing at each other in the ring with their swords and shields, eager to prove themselves and never having actually used their tools outside of a training ring, showing off for the crowd and for him personally, his mind was very far off. For most of Ferelden a marvelous battle at the top of Fort Drakon was the key image of the blight, utterly imagined though that retelling had become. For Alistair, when he thought of the blight what he immediately saw was Zevran, kneeling at Solona's side and wiping the blood and soot from her face with a cloth. Movements intensely gentle as if he was avoiding waking her, eyes full of tenderness. The continued fighting, the remnants of the horde being swept out of the city, physicians and mages attempting to heal the wounded in the chaos all faded to the background while he watched them. He would never stop knowing the intense failure he felt in that moment. He should have taken the final blow and Solona should have been in Zevran's arms alive and warm. He'd failed them both by allowing her to convince him that he was the one who should live.

A sharp elbow to his ribs pulled him from his solemnity and reminded him that he had an audience. Standing, Alistair called out to congratulate the winner, panting, dripping with sweat, but with an undeniable blush of achievement and pride on his face. He looked impossibly young, though he had an imposing build, even accounting for the plate armor he wore. Once the cheers had died down, Alistair couldn't stop himself from asking the youth, "And what would you do now that you've proven yourself in this tournament, young man?"

"I would like nothing more than to the join the Gray Wardens, your Majesty, so that I might protect Ferelden against the evils of the blight as you once did."

Alistair managed to keep his face neutral as a raucous cheer went up from the crowd at that, but only just. Another young man who knew nothing about the world beyond the stories he'd heard told, willing to run off into sure death. Warden Commander Caron would be pleased – the boy's declaration would surely help fill up the recruitment lines with his fellows unwilling to be left out of the glory to be had. In truth, the man he couldn't help but think of as a child was likely no more than a year or two younger than Alistair. But he felt like such an old man. Alistair gave a low bow to the man and his challenger and thankfully sank back down into his chair where the crowd could not completely see him and he could cover his face. A new round of challengers were being announced and Alistair was sure that the sky should open up and rain down floods to match his mood but the damnable thing remained cloudless and bright. It was going to be a very very long afternoon for the king.

…..

Very late that evening, after what felt like endless rounds of young fighters, archers, horsemen, dancers, tumblers, singers, and a frankly ridiculously huge feast laid out in the primary courtyard to allow the people of Denerim to partake (the single point Alistair had been, each year, able to argue for), Alistair found himself finally and blissfully alone. A single taper burned in a dish on his desk as he stripped off his various layers of finery down to just his shift and trousers and unceremoniously opened a rather fine bottle of whiskey that had been presented to him with ridiculous pomp and that he'd promised to keep for some special occasion. Finally being allowed away from the crowds who only wanted to laud him was special enough just now. The whiskey had been distilled from the grains gathered the year before the blight, the last of the abundant crop that had been available before the land was made rotten. In his maudlin state it was easy to imbue it with all sorts of imagined qualities – innocence, purity of purpose, friendship, faith. All those things that had been stripped from him so shortly after this mash had been distilled and bottled.

Physically shaking himself, Alistair forced himself to sit down at his desk and paw through his correspondence. He had no focus for it, but he certainly couldn't allow himself to continue to feel sorry for himself. His own tolerance for whining had been stripped away that year as well and it had never been allowed to grow back – especially when the whining was his own. He read through the letters from the Circle, having been kept well apprised of the situation there since entering into the plot to break away from the Chantry. They'd done it quietly, without official notice given to Orlais and the Divine. Greagoir had selected a group of Templars he knew would be loyal to the concept and the cause they were undertaking and began systematically re-assigning all the others to far flung locations in Ferelden. Some of the men raised protests at suddenly being shoved out into the world and away from what was, to them, their true calling and their home, but on the whole those who were being reassigned were thankful to be away from the tower. None of them had been through the great turmoil there during the blight, but they all were wary of it and their faith in the Chantry had mad the majority of them intensely strident in their work.

Against all odds the experiment was working out nicely. The mages certainly hadn't minded the transition and all but the oldest – and therefore most addicted – of the Templars had begun weening themselves off of the lyrium, extending their on-hand stores greatly. It had been an unpleasant shock for Greagoir to realize that, not only did Alistair know quite a lot about the Templar dependency on Lyrium, but that he didn't even need it to continue to employ his Templar trained talents. Finding out that your entire life's work had been based in large part on an utter lie and a completely unnecessary addiction to a substance that had a degenerative effect would likely put anyone off a bit. But Greagoir had, at least outwardly, handled it well. He was adamant that the younger Templars begin the process of ridding themselves of that dependency. He was convinced that that alone would be enough of a shackle to the Chantry for many of them. A few of the newest recruits were already going completely without it and most of the others were down to a few grains, diluted into potions once or twice a week.

Wynne had become a rehabilitation nurse at the circle more than anything else – measuring doses, chasing down the various ills that came with withdrawal, mothering these soldiers into healthfulness. It was a relationship that, from what he'd been told, had made the supposedly opposite sides far closer. They were eating together, having conversations without fear, and some of the Templars had even taken to staying in street clothes when they were not actively on duty.

But for all the relaxation, they all knew that at any moment the hammer could fall and the Chantry could become aware of exactly what they were up do. It was a time of both relief and fear in equal measures. Greagoir and Irving had developed an amazing report, better than they'd ever had from what Wynne shared with him. It was rather astonishing what the removal of fear could do for a group of people. They were both training up their replacements, men who would never know the iron fist of the Chantry in their daily lives, who must know what their predecessors had faced and stand vigilant against it. The more they'd shared of how they'd been dealing with planning for the future the more it all sounded like the Grey Wardens to Alistair. Not a pleasant thought, really, given how backward the Wardens could be in how they dealt with the realities of living beyond their cause. But perhaps it was necessary. No one could really say just now, when it was all in its infancy. A circle without the Chantry had never existed. Alistair found himself proud of that one thing, that one small thing that he could be sure he'd helped with. It would never be enough to balance the scales between himself and Solona – but it was a start.

Among the other letters, he found himself nearly dropping his glass to discover one from Hawke. A personal letter, not one of the progress requests from her office – impersonal, clearly not written in her hand, marked with the seal of her office – He'd been through the heart thumping and then disappointment every time he'd opened one of those in the last three months. Maker – three months since he'd heard from her. He'd nearly given up, truthfully. Alistair had decided that Hawke had evolved beyond the need for him, that his advice was trite and useless. He was no longer dealing with the same woman she'd been and she'd obviously decided to cease their relationship.

But here it was – her personal seal etched into the wax, her tight script that had written out his name. Gulping down the rest of his drink, he breathed out the fire it left in his throat and tried to steady his suddenly racing heart. Months without a letter and he still reacted this way. It made him feel vaguely sick with himself. Was he truly this eager? A puppy begging for whatever scraps of attention she was willing to part with? But that was bitterness she didn't deserve speaking. That was old hurt mixed with the blight, the memories of a person long since gone from him – long since reordered in his mind from potential… something… to friend. Hawke was not ... her. Hawke had never been anything but as honest as she could be, as honest as she could stand to be. And he'd known her weak and strong in equal measures and found both just as true.

He had to goad himself to break the seal, open the letter, find out what she had to say. It took long minutes of staring, running his fingertips across his own name etched there in ink as if he could sense her mood, her demeanor, the pressure of her fingers on the quill as she wrote. But eventually, taking a deep breath like one would before pulling an arrow free of your flesh, he broke the wax and read what she had to say.

…

Alistair –

I've obviously been remiss in not writing to you sooner. Frankly, I had no idea what to say. There are no words that can make sense of how your last letter impacted me. Not only was your advice sound and practical and helpful, but the simple fact that you took the time to lend me your strength was nearly overwhelming. And I've learned to redefine the word "overwhelming" in the last few years, as I'm sure your own definition has changed.

First – I have to ask that you forgive me for not being in touch sooner. Anything likely would have been better than silence for both of us but I've found that I need to place everything in little boxes in order to get through a week, through a day. The box for Kirkwall, the box for the Chantry and the mages and the Templars, the box for the Free Marches, the box for the whole of Thedas… so many little compartments I've carved out simply to stop myself from fleeing in the face of it all. Out of all of them, the box in which I have sequestered anything for myself is woefully small, as it has always been. It's easier to ignore that way, you see. It's easier to give it less importance and decide that all I really need is to focus on what needs to be done. But I know that's not true, no matter how much easier it would make everything. I should have just forced myself to get back in touch sooner – it's the very least you deserved.

Things here have been… well, they've been awful. We've begun the process of moving the citizens back into Hightown. Slowly, though, as many of the buildings are still completely uninhabitable. Those who cannot safely be allowed to take back their homes have had escorts of guards go with them to gather whatever they can. We've even offered some of them discounted purchases of previously uninhabited homes that had reverted in ownership to the city, though you'd think that was some kind of insult with the way they've reacted. The nobility regrets every day that they've voted me in as their leader. You should hear the things I'm called. At least when I was just Champion the epithets were whispered – now they hurl invective at me every time I so much as show my face. It's as if I personally ran around to all of their homes and blew enormous holes in them. Perhaps that's what they think after all. In the end, it doesn't matter.

I've learned that, as much as my existence here has always been a thankless one, I've only seemed to attain greater and great levels of being reviled as I've attained notoriety and rank. It's oddly comfortable for me. I'm sure that, if anyone were to be thankful for what I've tried to do, I'd have a clear sign that I'm doing something wrong.

The Chantry has finally reared its head in the form of an envoy of the Divine who has come to investigate and, though she didn't explicitly state it, find me in contempt of some law or writ or something. Her and her men are being housed in one of the few warehouses that still have room in them, something I'm sure I'll hear about in the morning. She only just arrived today, but made it clear enough what her goal here is. I'm going to be blamed for some or all of it. It's convenient enough, I suppose and I can't really begrudge anyone looking for the easy way out – Maker knows I'd love to find one. I already know what my crimes will be. I gave the bomb materials to Orsino instead of Meredith – an untrustworthy mage instead of the beacon of light that surely the Knight-Commander is even now being painted as. I've refused to rebuild the circle – the Gallows can sit there and rot for all I care – not a single worker will stir its dust while I hold this office. Let the earth take it back. Let the trees reclaim it. A pointless ruin would be a far better use than anything it's ever been before. It's tainted ground as far as I'm concerned. And the Chantry itself… I'm sure it will be rebuilt, it's simply not my priority. The few remaining mothers have been holding services out in the open near the Lowtown market. It's actually really nice hearing the Chant float up above the crowd. Plenty of people who never stepped food in that austere, intimidating building are hearing the Chant for the first time in years. I hope it brings them some level of peace. I hope it makes the Chantry sisters feel … useful.

My mind is horribly scattered as I try to write this and I apologize. It feels like I go days without speaking lately. I nod, I gesture, and minute hand movements that are interpreted and acted upon instantly are what my time is filled with. No one wants to hear what I have to say anyway. And when they think they do they're often disappointed by what leaves my mouth.

I snuck out tonight, finally without guards, down to Lowtown and to Varric. He had something to talk to me about and instead of waiting for him to come find me in the Keep where I've still been living, I decided to get some air instead. I don't think the experience was good for me, exactly… but perhaps it was necessary. It's funny how some places can stay exactly the same while you change instead. But that's what the Hanged Man has done. Frozen in time, that place is. And Varric as well. I'm not sure what it would take to truly change or evolve his nature, but we certainly haven't encountered it yet. Perhaps he's been changing all along though and I've failed to notice. It wouldn't be the first thing.

Anyway, he wanted to see me and so I went, finding him, as usual, in his room at the Hanged Man. Isabela seemed to have sense enough to leave when I got there – she'd obviously already found out what he had to tell me. I knew it would be bad just by the way she patted my shoulder as she left. Apparently Anders contacted Varric. I'm not sure what Varric meant to accomplish by telling me this, however, since he followed the news by letting me know he wouldn't tell me where Anders was or what he wanted. He did share the fact that Anders was not in the best place mentally from what he could tell. Not that Anders has been a shining example of mental fortitude and well being in the past several years to begin with, but from what Varric said, it was somehow worse. Whether guilt or anger or simply having to exist again without a network of supporters and protectors I can't say.

The fact that Varric would go out of his way to share this news and then make it clear I wasn't trustworthy enough to know more is something of a slap in the face. I suppose it's my position. The little bit that Varric has shared with me recently has carried a sharp tone of reproach and distrust. I'm "the establishment", I've put the well-being of a city above the well-being of this small group of people. He told me that I'm not the same person I was and then just eyeballed me, waiting for a reaction. I told him the only thing I could – that I've been so many different people in the last several years that it's impossible for me to say which one he thinks I'm supposed to be. That effectively ended the conversation.

I think that, out of everything I might have expected of being in this position, it's the loneliness that's struck me the most. Far from Varric's implication that I've abandonded my friends, I'm sure it's quite the other way around. Aveline hasn't stopped looking at me with eyes full of "this isn't how I'd do it" screaming at me. It's like every moment where my mother disapproved of me is being re-lived when she glances my way. She doesn't like a single thing I've done in the last several months, nor the way that I've done it. Apparently Aveline has been a Viscountess in her own mind for years and knows exactly how my job should be handled. Varric doesn't trust me, obviously. I wonder how his stories about me are shaping up now – if I've finally become the villain instead of the heroine. It was bound to happen, I'm sure.

Isabela is just as constant as the sea, however. She's the same as she's always been and always will be. And Fenris, he still looks at me the same as he always did. The title and the wardrobe and the circlet haven't changed an ounce of his feelings or thoughts about me. But he's careful in a way he's never been before. Suddenly our roles are reversed and he's watching me as if I might shatter when it's always been me tiptoeing around and straining to make him comfortable.

Sebastian left nearly a month ago. Finally gone to reclaim his homeland. A long hug and whispered encouragement was all I was able to send him off with, outside of a pretty large coin purse. I wish I'd been able to send troops, an army… something. But I can't even go myself, let alone split our meager defenses between that fight and our own. And, Maker, am I tired of fighting.

I've never in my life felt that I was owed anything. And now I do. I'm owed peace. I'm owed comfort. I'm owed just a tiny measure of a life that's my own. I want things that I cannot possibly have and want them desperately, in ways so deep I can't figure out how to express them without simply splitting open and never putting myself back together. I want a family and a home and laughter that isn't tinged with desperation and bravado. I want to smile without knowing what a lie it is.

I hate that wanting these things makes me feel petty just as much as I hate the circumstances that have put such simple desires outside of my reach. In short, I want so many things that I'm not truly destined to have. I've been honed into a weapon and weapons are for war. My mother insisted when she died that I was brave and strong. And every day that I get up praying for the day to be over with swiftly just to scratch off one more day of having done my duty I feel like she couldn't have been more wrong. I'm not brave, not even a little. I'm just getting by, hanging on, angry and defiant.

Reading your letter made me feel understood, Alistair. And it made me miss you so much. The thing is nearly in tatters now, I've read it so often, kept it tucked against my skin under my clothes as I worked; Some kind of talisman against despair. Sometimes it even works.

I will make the time to write again soon. And I swear it will not be this maudlin. If I have to hire a damned court jester, I'll force myself to find a real smile – perhaps it will help.

Yours –

-Marian

….

Alistair began idly tracing her name with his finger. Marian – his. His Marian.

It all came crashing down on him all at once – everything he'd avoided, every ounce of feeling he'd put off as childishness or loneliness. He was madly in love with her. There was no more avoiding it. He no longer wanted to, no longer needed to. After all what had he been doing all this time? Nearly two years since he'd met her and he'd been lying to himself the whole time. Deferring his feelings for no reason. He'd allowed them both to just languish in situations that were slowly killing them, her far more than him, certainly. But his bed and his home were cold and he'd imagined her there so many times, so many ways. Some nights he could hardly sleep for strangling visions of her here in his home, haunting the halls.

Is this what Solona had forced him to survive for? This existence that was living in only the most clinical sense?

His plans began churning immediately. He'd get some things in order, but he would leave and find her. He had a good chance that he was right – that she might feel the same way. He couldn't know. But for the first time in weeks .. maybe longer… Alistair felt alive. His heart was thumping, his hands sweating. It was like a fog had lifted suddenly. The confession was good for his soul and even better for his mind. He felt amazingly awake, excited.

Pacing suddenly with the buzzing in his veins he began to lay out his course. He'd get a ship, he'd take a crew, he'd get to Kirkwall, and he'd at the very least get to hold her. If he was very lucky, he'd get to hold her forever.

….

_Shorter Chapter to keep things moving. There will be more in the next few days and then a faster pace once I get back to all the things I had already written months ago when I began posting. My advice to others: don't completely change your plot mid-story. It's a PAAAAIN. _


	29. Chapter 29

Hawke was drunk. She'd always maintained rather well, no matter how much or how often she was drinking, but she knew it in the wobble of her knees and the slight sway to the room as she made her way finally to her chambers in the keep. Brann's planning session had turned more into a drinking session as he continually refilled her tumbler of Antivan whiskey like attempting to ply a child into concentration with sweets. Unfortunately, he was also filling his whole glass the whole time and at some point the whole thing broke down, pretense of work forgotten, and they fell into reminiscing about their own sides of shared events. The Qunari was the primary point of discussion. She knew quite well already how Brann had viewed her in her earlier years in the city (and he certainly knew her own opinions of him), but the internal discussions of office, how Dumar had reacted, his own mind about the tumultuous conclusion of the Qunari's long visit… they'd never discussed it before.

As she bounced ungracefully into a banister, she wondered at what all this change must have been like for Brann, who was forced time after time to trust a person he had so little regard for. And then, tonight, drinking like… well not old friends… but perhaps future ones. And honestly, while she didn't have the impression that they were bosom pals, there was at least a strong foundation of… something. Perhaps respect.

Nodding at the few of Aveline's guards still guarding the keep as she went, and eventually making her way to her small room and closing the door, Hawke leaned back, eyes closed, against the smooth wood. The room was no more homey or warm than it had been when she'd been more or less ordered to live there, but she'd certainly become accustomed to it. A few ledgers and books she'd been studying, a candle and a pile of correspondence on the desk. The room was small enough that there was no fire available – it was actually a disused supply closet that had been filled with crates before the Seneshal had it made over into a room for her. The one concession to something familiar or even comforting had been put there without her knowledge one day. A tapestry of Ferelden's storied past, the battle of River Dane, Chevaliers and ragged Fereldens clashing. It had been in her room in her home and she had no idea how it had gotten here. It just appeared one day, perfectly filling the far wall that housed her weaponry and armor.

The last weeks had been no more difficult or easy than the previous months; Which was to say that every day was a plodding mess of unhappy people who were becoming increasingly strident about their dislike of her, her policies, her decisions, and in one memorable showdown during morning court in the throne room, her "annoying little face". The truth of the matter was that Dumar had been complacent and disinterested as a ruler. As long as the nobility was kept somewhat quiet he'd been more than happy to let the rest of the city languish and decay. In a moment of surprising candor Brann had intimated that Dumar's interest in keeping Seamus away from the Qunari had been in part because he had been eager to retire and have his son step into the seat the moment he showed a smidgeon of aptitude for it.

She hadn't heard back from Alistair, but given the length of time it had gone for her own response to him, she hardly expected him to put himself out to get back in touch. But she had hoped… and… slumping onto the bed, she shook her head. Thinking of Alistair made her maudlin. It had been rare for her to miss someone as much as she missed him. The circumstances that pulled people away from her company were most often things that were final. The blight, death, capture, illness, war. It was an entirely new and uncomfortable thing to miss someone simply because they weren't near. Alistair made her feel sure and strong in a way that she hadn't felt since before the Deep Roads. Perhaps only Fenris knew how bereft she had truly been all this time, how wrung out it made her to pretend at being unshakeable and brave. Yes, she still made the hard decisions, but it was only because no one else was willing to.

In truth, Hawke found it more and more difficult every day to care, even a little, about Kirkwall. To truly care about it and not just go through these motions of governing as she was now. Kirkwall had stripped her of her family, thrust her into prominence, and then berated her for it every step of the way. Only her friends kept her anchored here and they… less and less every day. Fenris didn't need her anymore, not really. Isabela never needed anyone. Aveline was well entrenched and had found her calling, her love, and her home. Varric… the least thought about him the best. She still felt the burn of his distrustful gaze. He of all people, the myth maker himself… for him to turn sour on her now felt like losing another family member.

Pulling her boots off, she found herself not up to the challenge of actually changing or brushing her hair or much of anything beyond falling sideways toward the pillow and pulling her legs up behind her. Sleep found her blessedly quickly and her last bleary thought was that perhaps Brann had simply been trying to force her to rest by getting her drunk.

It could have been minutes or hours later – whiskey had robbed her of senses that she'd normally have, even while asleep – when she was abruptly yanked from the bed and held in the air. There were no hands on her and the only sound was a barely audible hum. And then slowly her body began to feel constricted, tight, her lungs emptying and fighting against the bands of steel that were - but were not- around her body. She knew this, this prison of air and pressure, and struggled to clear her vision to find the mage who was surely casting it. Two of them, angry faced, fierce, casting and holding her. A younger woman, an older man, and that was all the glimpse she got before she felt the blackness reach up for her.

Then, awake again with extreme pain jolting through her limbs, putting her in mind of fractures, tiny breaks in something fragile, but it was everywhere and seemed to pulse through her veins. Long years of refusing to give in to pain kept her from crying out but made it almost impossible not to pant in time with the ebb and flow of it, lapping at her with fire and ice through her veins. There, the elder mage laying down glyphs of some kind and the young woman, laughing dark and throaty at her, staff held aloft.

It subsided for a moment, just enough time to draw in a gulping lungful of air before her body seized again, back coming off the floor, shoulders and heels pressed down as she arched up as if on strings, every muscle a rictus of agony.

"Champion of Kirkwall. What a curious list of victims come with your title." The woman's voice was low and amused. Everything about her demeanor screamed eagerness, planning come to fruition, and possibly even a rehearsal of this little redressing. Hawke panted in the reprieve from pain and tried to determine the best way out of this, assessing her attackers, the likely scenarious. The glyphs being laid were not familiar to her – frankly, only a few were ones she knew by sight – but they now covered the walls, the floor, and the ceiling, the older mage who had casted them came to the side of the younger woman and sported just as much of a face full of ire.

"I'm sure many mages begged you for their lives while you destroyed them and took the spoils… leading a populace on the back of your cruelty toward mages is not exactly a new tactic." Another wave of pain, pure and direct twisted Hawke to her side, pulled taut like a bow made of twanging muscles and creaking joints and she screamed out, unable to keep it at bay.

"Before we're done, you'll know what it is to beg for your life."

Hawke found herself laughing. After all that she'd been through in the last few years, she was going to die here, in the Keep, by hands of a couple of mages who managed to sneak in on her while she was passed out drunk. The mages exchanged a glance at each other, clearly confused by her reaction, angry at not being taken seriously. It was a hysterical reaction mostly. Perhaps a bit of snide world weariness there as well. This little planned speech, it sounded rehearsed like someone this woman had been telling her own reflection for weeks as she built up the resources and the courage to come and do her worst.

In reaction, both mages struck again, covering her in lightning, ice, and pain. The dagger in her thigh sheath under her skirt felt frozen to her skin and absurdly she found herself wondering if it would be salvageable after this assault while another part of her brain screamed at her to take this seriously.

Fire and ice battled across her skin, the stinging ache of being nearly frozen chased by a warming fire that too quickly became scalding only to again be cooled to bitterness again by the ice. It did a rather fantastic job of using up every ounce of her attention, but there was no opportunity here to strike back, to free her hands and pull her dagger. And thankfully she didn't need to.

The door flew open, nearly flew apart as the hinges were ripped away from the wood and a long splintering crack formed down the middle. Distracted, the mages ceased casting and Hawke found herself simply laying there sweating, shivering, panting. It had been a long time since she'd felt quite that useless and helpless. Instead of inciting the kind of fear she knew it should she was just angry. Angry that she'd been caught out, angry at being off guard, angry that even in what was supposed to be a place of safety surrounded by armed and armored men and women she still couldn't simply sleep in a bed without having to be on guard. A shout and a wave of something that felt like magic but not quite moved across the chamber, seeming to physically push against her. The mages cried out in dismay and Hawke's last act was to croak out "let them live, question them" before a truer sleep reached up and pulled her down with it.

She woke to the feeling of being surrounded by people. Perhaps her least favorite way to wake up. It nearly always meant something bad. So Hawke kept her eyes closed, let the sounds of the room and the people in it drift to her as she slowly began to remember why she would be waking up quiet like this – pain in her skin and her muscles like she'd been tossed around on rocks. Some throbbing spots that felt like burns. Having the memory come crashing back caused her breathing to change and she knew anyone who was really paying attention would have noticed, so she opened her eyes.

Thankfully the person nearest to her was Fenris, perched on the very edge of the bed and watching her with a bit of humor in his eyes. He knew she was awake before she gave up the game. She hooked her index finger through his where his hand was causally splayed on the matress beside her and he flexed the digit back against hers. When overt affection didn't work, a tap on the foot, a poke, a quick joining of fingers… they were enough and had been for years. Their own little language of "are you hurt?" and "I'm alright" and "just bear with me, I'll explain later" and increasingly these days "I just need to know I'm not alone".

Fenris spoke then – "Would you like to sit up, Hawke?" and pitched it just loud enough that the rest of the room stopped their ceaseless moving back and forth and murmuring and took notice that she was doing just that – hauling herself upright and silently thanking the Maker that whoever had broken in and rescued her had had the good sense to leave her clothing completely intact. Of course that someone had to have been a Templar since the mages had been cut off from casting but not physically harmed. And ah – there he was – slightly pink in the face (from arguing? From worry? From embarrassment? It was hard to say, really), brow serious and drawn down over his concerned eyes.

As Fenris maneuvered Hawke upright – Maker, she was sore – and tucked a few pillows behind her back to support her, she was left to face her cadre of visitors. Cullen, Aveline, Brann, another Templar she wasn't familiar with, one of the lay sisters of the Chantry who had been mercifully ministering to the sick in Darktown on the day of the destruction and had since become something of an unofficial court physician, and – oddly – Varric. Standing off in the corner and looking far more aloof, disinterested, and pointedly polite than she was sure she'd ever seen him.

"Brann, I" She began to speak but was a little disturbed by the horrible croaking lurch in her own voice. " … what have you learned?"

"First, your grace, I think we must assure that you are well."

"I am well enough, Brann. Nothing is broken; most of the damage seems to be due to my decadent lifestyle these days." To drive home her point, Hawke rolled her shoulders, letting through a very authentic wince at the way her back twinged and ached at the movement. "Nothing a little rest and perhaps some elfroot won't fix."

As if to gain the truth, Brann cast his eyes at Cullen who noticed but only nodded and agreed with her. "Yes, they had not yet done anything that may be considered permanently damaging as far as I could tell. I would not worry, Messere Brann."

Brann twitched his shoulders and just barely stopped his eyes from rolling. He hated to be accused of being _concerned_ for the Viscountess. "Yes, well, I am sure you know best among us all, Knight-Commander."

Hawke interrupted them with a terrible and sudden thought - "The agent of the Divine… she doesn't…" – only to be superseded by Brann who had obviously anticipated this "I've already heard back from the guard who was sent to check on her. She is well and undisturbed so far. Only those of us in this room and two additional Templars of Cullen's choosing are aware of the situation."

Hawke settled back slightly, nodding.

"Alright. Have they been questioned?"

Cullen took up the narrative "Only in the most perfunctory way. They are both of them unwilling to speak to Templars, obviously, but intimated they may be willing to talk to you personally. I would strongly recommend you have no further interaction with them, however, your grace."

Hawke found herself smiling indulgently at Cullen. Such an austere soul, so oddly kind in his way. " I appreciate your forethought and of course your intervention. I … how did you know that.."

"I felt the fade, your grace. They had laid down sound dampening glyphs, effectively ensuring that no one would hear you were you to call out for assistance or … in pain." Cullen visibly gulped. He hadn't relished playing hero in this regard. He didn't like having to intervene. She'd known that before, of course, but to see it so plainly on his face now was still interesting. Most Templars she'd encountered rather relished the opportunity to finally let fly their abilities, to finally flex their muscles and fulfill their duty. Not Cullen. "But as I passed nearby, leaving a meeting with Aveline, there was a great rending in the fade that no Templar would have been capable of ignoring. I … I have to assume that's why they chose to strike when they did."

Hawke swung her eyes to Aveline "No Templars on the duty roster?"

Aveline's face was hard, stiff, annoyed. "No."

"And who had knowledge of the roster or had access to it?"

"Beyond me and my guardsmen? No one." Hawke could see that the woman practically had to restrain herself from demanding that she _dare_ accuse one of them. Instead, Hawke found herself pausing for a moment, assessing.

"I assume, then, that you are already investigating how these mages came upon this knowledge?"

"I will know it and correct whatever crack allowed it to happen, your grace. I assure you." Aveline, fiery and angry was a frightful thing. A woman with all the law she wanted on her side and an axe to grind with it was… scary. Thankfully it wasn't pointed at Hawke.

Thinking back a moment, Hawke added "Only the two at the front landing and the three I passed in the hall would have been aware of me coming in here when I did. I … I don't know all their names, Guard Captain, but I'd be happy to point them out should the need arise."

Aveline nodded once, curtly, and said no more.

Varric spoke up, clearing his throat in what Hawke thought was a rather meek manner for him. "What I'd like to know is how they got the jump on you in the first place."

Brann began to speak, but Hawke cut him off. There was no way she was having him take the blame for this. "I'd been drinking. I passed out as soon as my head hit the pillow." She shrugged slightly, making it clear that that was all the explanation she was willing to give. "What _I'd_ like to know is why exactly _you're_ here, Varric." And here she did allow her eyes to fall on Brann. Fenris wouldn't have fetched him – he knew things between them had been strained. Aveline, similarly would have used his resources as a last resort only and Cullen certainly hadn't thought to call on Kirkwall's own king of the underworld for anything. That left Brann.

"I felt that his knowledge of the comings and goings out of the port would be useful, your grace."

Hawke simply nodded. Yes, he'd be useful for that. But she still didn't like it. It was petty, but she didn't want to have to ask his help for anything at all. Let him have his information and his connections. Let him treat her as if she'd betrayed him by becoming respectable. It left her feeling bitter and the ache in her body felt so much worse, so much heavier for it. Fenris seemed to notice her deflating and he turned to the lay sister . "Could you provide a pain killer? Perhaps some basic supplies in case Hawke should need them later in the night?"

Sister Claudine nodded demurely, bringing over a small basket of bandages, tinctures, and potions that she'd been clutching until she was given leave to actually examine Hawke. Looking grateful to be relieved of that duty, she slipped out of the room quietly.

"Please, I believe I need some rest now. I… thank you again, Cullen, for your intervention, Brann for your attention to this matter while I am resting, and Aveline for… well… for what I know will be a swift investigation into this matter."

That was all the dismissal the assembled needed. Fenris, wisely, remained exactly where he was until the rest of them had left the room with Varric casting a glance over his shoulder as he went, a million questions on his face and slightly subdued, nearly hurt look in his eyes as the realization that he was no longer counted among those who would of course stay.

Once everyone had been out of the room for a few moments, Fenris caught her eye "So how badly are you actually hurt?"

Hawke cracked a grin at him. He always knew. "Not as badly as I was meant to be, I'm sure. I…" as Hawke attempted to move aside the blankets and winced, Fenris grabbed both her hands to stop her.

"With the way Cullen described what he walked in on I am not surprised. Let me, just lie back."

Hawke complied but found herself smirking. "Oh I bet that line works on all the ladies."

Fenris, wisely, simply ignored her and began poking at her sides, her arms, tracking the paths of her injuries to determine what needed aid. "You know, Hawke, I'm surprised you wear these dresses so frequently."

Shrugging slightly, Hawke bit out through her teeth as Fenris's fingers brushed over what felt like a burn on her arm, "Wear the armor that suits the battle, Fenris."

He only grunted in reply. "This wound makes me believe there are probably more. I'll help you up, but you need to get changed into something else so we can treat these burns." He held out his hands then and maneuvered her up before moving to the small chest in the corner and pulling out a shift, which he tossed to the bed and then to the door where the turned the latch before coming back to help her with her laces. Hawke found herself musing on the fact that, had this been happening in the first year she'd known Fenris she'd be having a very different reaction – Nevermind that he would never have even stood this close to her in that first year let alone been bold and un-self-conscious enough to strip her clothes off her without embarrassment.

After a very careful application of salve to the burns that arced arcoss her back, her legs, her arms, and elfroot poultices and several tinctures to help release the extreme cramps in the muscles across her back, he finally had her settled again, the room smelling medicinal and vaguely sharp like the ozone smell of the wind after a storm. It was a smell Hawke and Fenris both associated with magic more than nature, unfortunately, and simply having it linger made them both feel a little tense.

"Do you ever get beyond the hate, Fenris?"

As he sat he quirked an eyebrow at her. "We all know there are so many things to hate – which are you speaking of?"

"Mages. I …" she shook her head as she tried to explain. "I grew up with magic, knew it and its uses and never feared it a moment in my life. But now I just… I don't fear it really, though I likely should. But I do not want to be near it either. It's been a relief having no mages in the city to worry about it."

"I've never gotten beyond it, Hawke, not really – but then I am something of a special case. You have always been far more… willing to accept that there are exceptions to rules that I am."

Hawke nodded and continued to look down at her hands where they were laced together in her lap.

After long moments of silence, Fenris shifted toward her again and used one long finger to poke at her knee in a little "tap tap tap" pattern. "Are you alright, Hawke?" She could tell from his tone, he was asking because he needed to know. This answer was for him, not to give her an avenue to vent her upset like it would be for anyone else.

"No, I'm not."

"Is it because of tonight?"

"No, not really. This was just… one more thing."

Fenris nodded minutely, mulling over exactly what it was he wanted to say. Moments like this, truly unguarded, willing to be truthful in a way that was generally unsafe any other time – they were rare for her, especially this past year. Something had shuttered and gone dark in Hawke when her mother died – some light that had never been rekindled. He needed to use this time well or be met with blankness.

"And what does it all add up to?" - might as well cut to the quick.

Hawke took a deep breath and let it out slowly. "Growing up, we were hunted. Even in times of relative calm, we knew it could come at any moment. We were always ready to run, ready to fight. When we came to Kirkwall, nothing changed. Losing Carver broke my mother for a very long time. Her will was just… gone. So I had to fight for all of us. And then I lost Bethany to the taint. But still, there was the struggle and the Qunari, another fight to throw myself into. I respected the Arishok. We've talked about that. I respected the Qunari – their purpose, their surety, their resolve. I entered into that duel expecting to die and… I think perhaps I welcomed it." Hawke paused there when she saw Fenris's hands clench on his knees. She hadn't admitted that aloud to anyone in all this time. But now that she was talking, she was going to answer his question. "But then… I didn't die. And the only good part about that was that it would have destroyed my mother. And of course, then she was taken from me as well and there was nothing left to fight for, no reason to keep going. And I languished that way for a long time. We worked, we took jobs, I did what was expected of me but… what's the point of it all?"

Fenris simply absorbed what she'd said for a moment. Quietly, dreading the answer, he asked "And what have you decided?"

"I can't continue like this, Fenris. I was never meant to be this person that I've become. I've never wanted it."

"What do you want?"

"Is it even worth talking about? I won't get it."

Fenris shook his head and caught her eyes with his. "I didn't ask if it was feasible or easy or even something that could be accomplished. I asked what you want."

Hawke's throat closed on the sob that was forming there, her eyes blurred with tears she refused to let fall. No one had ever really asked her what she wanted.

"A home. A family. A reason for once in my life not to fight. I'm bone weary of being a weapon. But, Fenris, a dagger is a dagger is a dagger. It can't be anything else."

Fenris smiled at her, a little sadly, and haltingly, as if he didn't want to say what he was about to say, and in a low and rumbling voice said "A dagger may be a dagger, Hawke, but it can be put to many uses."

And there it was. The permission she'd been waiting for. The confirmation that she didn't need to be or do anything other than what she wanted. That she was _allowed_ to have her own wants. The tears tipped over the edges of her eyes and raced to her chin as she shook her ahead at the idea. Was it really that simple? Just… go find a home? Go find a family?

"You need to rest. I … when you decide whatever you decide will you… will you let me know?" The open worry on his face was heart breaking.

Hawke moved closer to him on the bed, placing her hands on his shoulders and squaring up their faces. "Whatever I decide, Fenris, whatever happens, wherever I go or don't go, do or don't do… you are my family, just as precious as the one I was born into and perhaps more – hard won as it was. I am yours and you are mine, unbreakable. Never doubt that."

She waited there, staring and fierce until he looked up into her eyes and saw the truth there, until he accepted it, his face softening and his hand coming up to grasp her wrist in a tight squeeze.

They sat there a few moments longer, letting the moment linger – they both needed it just then.

Finally Fenris nodded and Hawke released his shoulders as he stood. "I will see that there are fresh guards at the door, one of them a Templar. Sleep if you can."

Hawke gingerly laid herself back in the bed as he closed the door behind him. She knew that there would be precious little sleep the rest of the night. There were plans to formulate, affairs to arrange. An exit strategy to develop.

….

_A.N.: Hey all. I know there has been a big gap in postings. Many reasons for this – a lot of fourth quarter work, an out of town trip, and a lot of vacillating about what I actually wanted to write in the last of these transition chapters back to my original story line. _

_I'm posting this tonight and hope to have the next chapter and subsequent chapters out on a better schedule – but I have to focus on the writing that pays me, first and foremost! It's unfortunate, but until I start getting paid full time to write fan fiction that's just the way it has to be _

_I would appreciate any feedback on where this story sits as this and the next chapter go up. I'm a little ambivalent and have a few ways I may deal with some of the issues I've built in. Your feedback may nudge me in one direction or the other and it's also always good to know that I haven't lost any of you reading completely! _


	30. Chapter 30

It took Alistair over a month before his affairs were settled enough to let him leave Ferelden. Another clash in the Bannorn seemed to be about to boil over and he simply couldn't take a ship and leave them to deal with it themselves unless he truly desired returning to find some puppet ruler two generations away from Chasind hillfolk trying to rule in his stead. The men of the Bannorn were a special breed that often combined the worst traits of Ferelden's barbarian ancestors (in-fighting, greed, an extreme lack of wanting to understand their common man) and the worst traits of its current state of nobility (in-fighting, greed, an extreme lack of wanting to understand their common man, and ridiculous clothing from abroad). The effect was something like someone had convinced a shepherd to put on a mile of Orlesian silk and swan about talking nonsense in demanding tones.

Alistair had just spent nearly three weeks trying to make two such men understand why they couldn't just take the others' lands. He never truly wished for more of the blight… not really… but a dark and cynical part of him knew that only the threat of darkspawn or Orlesian Chevaliers had done anything to make these difficult men stop their bickering for even a short span of time.

A simple adjustment to interest percentages applied to shipments from one county to another had solved the problem well enough for now. But it had taken weeks to get there and Alistair felt every awful ticking second of that time. Now that he'd made his own mind up he felt like a child, chafing at all his requirements until he could go and leap into play. Play in this case being … well that metaphor went somewhere utterly rude in his own mind. He was eager for Marian in a way that he'd never been before, not for anyone or anything. It was frustrating that he'd wasted so much time, squandered more than a year on squashing his feelings, denying what he knew in his heart.

But he was here now, standing on the bow of one of Ferelden's newest clippers, built for speedy travel between ports and scouting missions at times of war. Quiet, low to the water, throwing little silhouette and stocked with sailors trained in stealth missions. It was an inaugural bit of pomp for the shipwrights, who saw this as a king's trust in them. It was really just a damned fast ship and he needed to get to Kirkwall as quickly as possible or risk becoming some sort of despot in his own damned house. The only thing that balanced his frustration was his sense of elation. Mind made up, direction set – he had a purpose. Alistair was dangerous with a purpose and he was well aware of that.

Pity the man or beast who got in his way now.

…

Seneshal Brann was doing his best to appear stalwart, sure of himself, and above all haughty. But his normal ability to make people wither in the face of his disapproval was dying a painful death in the face of Alistair Theiren's cold eyes. While he'd certainly respected the man before, both as a hero and as a king, he'd never given much thought to what it would be like to be caught here, ostensibly standing in the way of something this man clearly had a great desire for. He was sure now that he understood a little of why it was that he was made king, how he'd survived a blight, how he'd vanquished an arch-demon. He'd only seen a look that determined on a few faces before and on only one that made him believe, as he did now, that it was in his very best interest to get out of the way.

"I apologize, your majesty, but that is all the information I am able to provide you at the moment."

Alistair paced away a step to the left, and then back two to the right before returning and looking down at Brann. Somehow he seemed taller than he had been when he'd walked in, his full press of guards looking polished and begging to be watched. It was ridiculous, of course – but, Maker, was it intimidating.

"You, Seneshal Brann, are telling me that you cannot tell me where the Viscountess is, nor when she will return."

"That is correct, your majesty."

"And you seriously expect me to simply… accept that answer. Am I correct?"

"Unfortunately, yes, your majesty. You are correct."

After staring at Brann for another long moment, the king turned and stalked back out of the keep, his pace set at something slow, stalwart… unstoppable.

Brann found himself both relieved and exhausted watching the man walk away with his guards. The past weeks had been full of such confrontations but this one had been the only one to drive him back into his office and directly to his decanter of brandy. Lifting the glass in silent toast before he downed it all in one gulp, he muttered to himself, cursing the day he'd found himself believing in Marian Hawke to the point where he'd obviously become willing to lie to dangerous and angry men for her.

….

The door to the Hanged Man swung open wide, smacking into the barely holding together plaster of the wall behind it and rattling the nearest drinks on tables. With a face like a thunderhead Alistair stalked through the patrons, only some of whom were actually roused enough to wonder where the noise had come from – it was the Hanged Man, after all – and headed directly for the stairs, his guard clanking and weaving behind him like a line of goslings.

Varric's door received similar treatment as the previous door, though the effect was dampened somewhat by the fact that the room was empty.

A weary feminine voice wafted toward him where he stood, annoyed that his annoyance had no easy outlet in the form of a smug dwarf. "He ain't here, love. Been gone a fortnight."

"A fortnight?" turning, he eyed the woman up and down. One of the barkeeps. Nora, Norma, Nadine… something. "Did he leave with Hawke?"

Looking at him like he was possibly the stupidest creature she'd ever encountered and then rolling her eyes, Nora hefted out a sigh that seemed pulled from her toes. "If by Hawke you mean Viscountess Amell – no. They've had naught to do with each other for months by my count. Sometimes people leave – we don't keep them nailed to the ground round here. And if you're looking for Messere Amell there's a great stone building up at the high end of town where you should be looking."

And with that, she clomped back down the stairs and off toward the bar.

So the fact that Hawke was gone wasn't common knowledge. And… Viscountess Amell? She'd been so adamant about now taking her family name. And then she'd gone and done it and just not told him. It was ridiculous, he knew, but somehow that was painful in a way he hadn't expected and made him feel horribly out of his depth. The whole of Kirkwall had been getting on with things, Hawke at the forefront and he had heard so little from her that he felt like he was intruding. He was no longer a welcome confident, he was no longer the only one to know something as he had been just last year.

Varric was gone; he had no idea where the hell Fenris might be given that his quick look at the location of his stolen mansion confirmed that the explosion of the Chantry had nearly leveled the place. Would Aveline have information? That was a trip back up to Hightown and the Keep and he was sure if he saw Brann again just now he'd twist his little head off of his neck. He was sure the man had just been doing his job but somewhere along the line his need to see Marian had outstripped his sense and it would be far too easy to take out all his ire on the man.

Stomping back down the stairs, he did the only thing he felt he could do in the situation – the only thing he was currently willing to do. He told his guard to get comfortable, whipped off his cloak and motioned a serving girl for a round of drinks. He wasn't budging out of Kirkwall until he got some answers. And he wasn't moving on from the Hanged Man until someone to give him those answers materialized.

….

The note he'd received had been simply worded. "The King is here". Norah had been tasked with sending all of Varric's many messengers on to Fenris in his temporary lodgings in Lowtown during the dwarf's absence. The vast majority of the information he received was meaningless to him and was passed along to Varric's second in the Merchant's Guild instead. But occasionally he'd been privy to things even in the few short weeks he'd had this type of access that were extremely useful or at least interesting if you knew how to read the clues that invariably spoke of change in the city.

He'd wondered if King Theirin would return or send word on his own – wondered frequently at just what sort of commitment he'd made formally and informally to Hawke since she'd been loath to talk about Alistair with him. There'd never been a topic off limits between them before and the fact that she guarded her feelings about the man so closely said far more to him than anything she could actually share. The fact that he'd showed up here unannounced and made enough of a show of himself that random Lowtown runners had made note of it spoke to the man's willingness to be seen. But to what purpose? He'd been sure that Hawke would have told at least Alistair about her departure – but now, he wasn't so sure.

As he made his way through the streets and stairs to the Hanged Man he took in the state of things. Lowtown had largely gotten back to normal, most of the nobles having moved back into Hightown or shipped out while their estates were still under construction. He knew that Hawke's departure had likely caused a great deal of turmoil within the Viscount's Keep itself but out here things were the same as ever. He knew the work she'd put in to create this simplicity in transition, this seeming peace. He'd watched, often unseen, while she'd dragged the whole of the city back into sanity, sacrificing her own in the process.

He knew she'd left when he'd come back home from a late night at the Hanged Man to discover a stack of books on his table tied with a wide red ribbon that she wore in her hair from time to time and that he'd once remarked upon, saying that the color suited her. It was a memento, some remembrance to leave behind that wouldn't be truly obvious to anyone but her and to him. He'd known after that attack at the Keep that she was at a breaking point. Something was going to give and while he'd hoped that she'd find a way to manage it, he knew that this might be what happened. He tried in the weeks that followed to feel good about it, to feel happy for her, but it was more than a little difficult. A feeling of abandonment warred with anger – anger at this city and its demands and the never-ending need it had for someone to fix it. He supposed he should be angry at her as well for leaving him behind. But the resentment toward everything that once came to him so quickly had bled away from him over the years. He took to wearing the ribbon as a favor, hidden beneath his gauntlet around his wrist. It was … sentimental. And it even made him chuckle to think of how much his friend had changed him simply by accepting what he already was.

The king and his group of guards were impossible to miss as he quietly slid around the door of the Hanged Man and quietly made his way to the bar, nodding at Corff who looked nervous.

"Been nursing their drinks for going on two hours now. Not a word from any of them."

"And yet you looked distressed." Fenris let his lips hitch up with humor.

"Frankly, Messere, the fact that they're so quiet in the first place is odd enough for this place. Puts me on edge, right – makes me just wait for the inevitable. Plus, it's not just them." Leaning in a bit as he placed a drink Fenris hadn't ordered in front of him to cover the action, Corff whispered. "Far corner of the room, leather tunic on one, cowl on the other. Didn't come in with the other guard."

Nodding, Fenris made a point of paying for the drink and at least pretending to take a drink as he let his eyes wander across the whole of the room without stopping on any point in particular. It was enough to see what Corff was referring to. The men were relaxed enough, blended in well, but were just a little too tense. Clandestine meetings rarely carried such an air of unease about them when they occurred in the Hanged Man, largely because no one truly cared what nefarious things you were paying for here as long as you didn't break any furniture or leave blood stains for Corff to deal with. That meant that these were not local men and their chosen eye lines pointed directly to them being in the King's employ in some way. Leave it to royalty to get something to wrong while attempting to do something right.

Swapping out the nose-hair burning swill Corff had poured him for a bottle of the one wine the Hanged Man stocked that didn't turn his stomach, Fenris made his way toward Alistair and his men. The king's head popped up when he was halfway there, spotting Fenris immediately, and letting the relief show clearly on his face only to be replaced swiftly by a steely determined look that Fenris couldn't help but smile at. That was the face of a man on a mission. Good. Better that he be of a mind to fight than sitting there drowning his sorrows. It would at least be a less painful meeting they were about to have and would allow him to be blunt without feeling guilty about it.

Without actually stopping at the table, Fenris jerked his head toward the steps and continued onward to Varric's room, trusting that the King would follow.

He wasn't disappointed and was even surprised that Alistair had left his guard outside the door, stalking in and taking one of the seats opposite of where Fenris had already settled himself and begun pouring a drink. Watching from under his fringe, he examined the King's demeanor. He wasn't sure he knew exactly how to define what he saw there – anger, confusion, determination, worry… it was all roiling there together in the man's eyes even as his overall expression remained neutral and stoic. Fenris had to wonder how much of this expression was his usual way of showing himself and how much was the situation. Was this the kind of weakness and vulnerability he showed all the time or was this Hawke's doing?

"Obviously, Alistair, she is not here."

His eyes narrowed and his tone was curt, sarcastic even. "Obviously." But he didn't say anything else, just waited.

Taking a long drink from his mug, Fenris wondered where to start. He was not the most talkative man on the best of days and over the course of his life the largest outpouring of words he'd ever had had always been in Hawke's presence. He truly didn't think anyone would understand her reasoning – he himself was unsure of exactly what she'd been thinking over the last few months and he knew he was more intimately acquainted with her character than just about anyone still alive. Sighing quietly, he realized he'd have to lay it all out.

He began with a cursory review of the state of the city over the last few months, the trials that had beset Hawke on her path to getting things under control. He would have been surprised if Alistair didn't already know some of this, but it helped to lead in to the rest of the story that he probably had no knowledge of. Angry nobles only slowly coming around to the way that Hawke had been handling the unrest of the city were the key issue. Then there was the fact that she was pointedly subverting the will of the Divine. She'd been polite to the envoy, Mother Clotilde, or as polite as she absolutely needed to be. The envoy had been questioning people with her cadre of Templars glowering behind her, putting together her own – likely wildly inaccurate – picture of the events that lead to the destruction of the Chantry. The fact was that only a handful of people were actually privy to the reality of what had happened. The facts around Meredith's descent into madness had been somewhat closely guarded and the official story was that she had died in the fighting, a glorious death for a stalwart protector of mages. Orsino's end had been even more wildly rewritten, said to be one of the earliest victims of the rite of annulment, his giving over to blood magic, his part in the death of Hawke's mother and the other women Quentin had murdered over the years kept as a secret among the few of them who heard the man confess it before he became utterly less than and more than human at the same time.

When Fenris related the attack on Hawke by the mages that night in the Keep, Alistair's only reaction was to lean back and cross his arms across his chest, his face gone stony and his shoulders tight. He did blink in surprise at the seeming concern Cullen had shown her and his intervention, but everything else he might be feeling stayed off his face and out of his eyes.

What they'd found in their investigations was that one of the guards on duty that night, somewhat newer to the order and not one of the men who had experienced the guard under Jeven's rule before Aveline was elevated to the rank, had a brother who was an apostate. Frankly the investigation hadn't needed to probe far before the man came forward and confessed himself. The mage rebellion that was alive and well in Nevara contacted him, claiming that they had taken his brother and knew exactly where the rest of his family was. They threatened the life of his parents and his brother unless he provided a messenger they'd sent with the guard rotation roster. In addition, they cajoled him into asking for a change in rotation – nothing that was obvious, just a slight shift in his hours to a slightly later hour. He'd let them into the Keep and then remained scarce, distracting another guard from his own patrol path for a scant few minutes which was just enough for them to get into Hawke's room.

The mages had been unwilling to speak about who exactly had set them on their path, their leadership except to say that none of them had forgotten the way that the Viscountess had betrayed them and that they would not be the last to come and attempt to rectify the great injustice that was done when she was elevated to leadership. Their loyalty to their cause was intense and no threat or censure swayed them from it.

At the protests of both the Divine's envoy and Cullen, Hawke determined that they would be treated as anyone else who would attempt to take the life of the Viscount. They were hanged and it was made public, something that Kirkwall hadn't done in generations, preferring instead to carry out executions quietly in the jail itself. A scaffolding was erected right at the foot of the stairs to the Keep and Hawke appeared to make a speech, pronounce judgement, and watch them hanged before the crowd. She stated in her address that she and the city of Kirkwall by extension refused to be bullied by any man or woman, no matter their bloodline, country of origin, or quirk of their bloodline. She proclaimed that the mage rebellion had been put down here and it would continue to be squashed – the people of Kirkwall would no longer be saddled with the nightmare that they'd already been through. She stood there and watched as they were hanged.

The guardsman who had assisted them was relieved of duty and sentenced to a term of hard labor. Some felt that it was unfair of her since he'd only had his loyalties turned, but Aveline and Cullen felt she was being far too lenient. The divine's envoy was similarly enraged at this turn of events, asking that all three be handed over to her and her Templars for punishment and Hawke refused.

Then, scant days later she was simply gone. She left a sheaf of instructions with Aveline another with Cullen, and the last with Brann.

"So that's the last anyone has heard from her? You're telling me that the Viscountess of Kirkwall simply disappeared overnight and the whole city is just ignoring it?"

"I'm saying that Hawke is no longer here. Brann was apparently instructed that he was to announce her departure officially and hold an election for a new Viscount at a set time. I am sure that time is approaching. We've all worked to keep it quiet until then."

"But why?" Alistiar leaned forward here "Why keep it quiet at all? Why not go after her? Why just let your ruler flee their responsibility?"

Fenris felt his own eyes narrow at that. "You wanted to know what happened, Alistair, or at least I assume that's why you are hanging around in the Hanged Man. I am telling you. You can take from it whatever you like, but I'll warn you only once – I have no interest in your opinion of the situation. You were not here."

While Alistair knew it was a simple statement of fact – he wasn't here – at that moment if felt like an accusation. He wasn't here and there was a part of him that was sure that he should have been. Perhaps had he been a little less of an idiot Marian would now be here or, preferably, they'd both be back in Ferelden together.

"You're right. I wasn't here. I … I can't pretend to know why she would leave instead of simply correct things or… ask for help. But…I am sorry – please, is there anything else you know?"

"The Divine's envoy is tired of being put off. She's begun making threats about asking for the censure of the Viscountess, forcing her to submit to questioning, even having her taken back to Val Royeaux to be questioned by the Divine herself. It's all a lot of bluster at the moment, but when it's made clear that Hawke has left for good, I am sure that she will move from threats to action."

"As for where Hawke is – I do not know. I know where she was and likely who she is with, however."

Fenris produced a piece of parchment from a pouch on his hip an laid it on the table between them before refilling his drink and leaning back, cup in hand to watch the king.

Alistair peeled open the letter and began to read.

….

Fenris –

I am sure that Hawke will not thank me for this as she made it abundantly clear that she did not want to be found, but I felt that someone should know where she headed even if no pursuit is made. If that earns me her ire, I've at least earned it honestly. She and Isabela took shelter in my home for a night and a day while Isabela put together a crew. They would not say where they were heading, but from their departure direction it is clear they are not heading south. I do not know exactly what has happened, but Hawke was a shadow of herself. It is my worry for her condition that pushed me to send this.

I know that I may simply be adding the misery of knowledge to the situation, but I trust that you will know how to handle this information and whose hands – if any – it is trusted to.

Be well, friend.

Nathaniel

…

That old jealousy bubbled up in Alistair's gut. Nathaniel Howe had been who she'd run to, who she'd trusted. Nathaniel Howe, who apparently had won over Warden Commander Caron and the rest of the Wardens at the Vigil with his quiet fortitude. It was ridiculous feeling this much anger over a man he'd never truly met, only brushed past once or twice in visits to Vigil's Keep and had only been vaguely aware of. But there it was, irrational or not, a dislike that went deep and burned like alcohol down his throat.

"So she was in Ostwick." Alistair stated the obvious to try to get his footing back. "And where, might I ask is Varric? I know that they've been… distant… but I can't help but think that this is something that might cause a rift to mend?"

Fenris nodded vaguely. "He's off chasing his guilt."

That response spoke enough to Alistair about the situation. He'd vaguely hoped that they'd had some kind of mending of fences before she left but apparently not. The way Fenris characterized it, perhaps Varric had come to see the error of his ways… just a little too late.

"And you, Fenris?"

Fenris simply looked at him, eyebrow quirked.

"Why aren't you off chasing her down? Why just… accept this?"

Fenris sighed, audibly this time, studying the table instead of looking at Alistair directly. "I accept this because she knows her mind. And because I know what it is to need to run away."

The quiet that developed in the room at that remained and lingered and made itself at home. Fenris had nothing left to volunteer and Alistair had no idea where to probe for answers anymore. He wasn't sure that he'd like anything he learned or that there even was anything else to know.

Eventually, Fenris finished his cup and stood. "You and your men should take shelter at one of the pubs in Hightown. The Laughing Cockerel is well appointed and likely utterly empty. You can use your rogues to secure the rooms for you – I'll even let them follow me there if they can manage to stop looking so obvious."

Alistair blinked at him a moment. "That bad, hmmm?"

Fenris shrugged. "Every ne'er do well in Kirkwall knows how to spot a Crow – your men are definitely not Crows."

"Thank the maker for that…." Alistair shook his head at the whole turn of events. As Fenris made his way to the door, Alistair stopped him with his voice. "Thank you, Fenris. I … I will be staying in Kirkwall for… well, for as long as I can."

Without turning around completely, Fenris simply turned his head and nodded before stalking off back through the door and down the stairs. Alistair waved at the questioning look the guard on the door gave him, signaling that they'd all be leaving now. Heaving himself to his feet, he knew that he'd be writing some letters before the night was out.

…

Hawke hefted up another crate and began the tedious process of lashing it down to the crates below it and to the side walls. The air in the hold was stifling, thick with humidity and salt. Sweat trickled down her back as she wove the ropes around corners and tied them off to the brackets along the wall of the ship, hands finally blessedly hardened to the rough hempen ropes after nearly two months of bleeding and cracking. Dagger callouses were not the same as the callouses sailors developed and she'd endured more than her share of ribbing over her supposed daintiness while the first mate roughly bandaged her hands those first few days. Being the newest of the crew, untested, and a woman at that hadn't exactly endeared her to any of the hardened shipmates Isabela had assembled. But she knew how to endure, how to allow herself to be broken in. She'd done it before and while this was new it was also incredibly familiar in a way that felt good – in as much as she was able to feel much of anything at all.

The crew had no idea who she was. Isabela's thirst for gossip was well tempered by her survival instinct, especially among a new crew of sailors. It was unclear where loyalties were just yet and it would be a mistake to believe any of these men would think twice about making quite a lot of noise about who exactly she was and what they could get for the information. Brann would be announcing a need for a new Viscount any day if he was sticking to her plans and the news would spread quickly along the coast. That would also mean a reaction from the Chantry and she and Isabela were both braced for that reaction to be less than kind.

Beyond the practical reasons, Hawke was more than happy to pretend she was someone else entirely. Just act like the last 3 or 4 months hadn't happened at all and she was just as bereft of a past as Fenris was. It took a few days to train herself to answer to "Lauren", and that was really the hardest part. No one asked about her past or her family or tried to dig any information out of her. She was there on the ship, and while green in many ways, she worked hard and pulled her weight and that was enough for any of the crew.

That she also seemed to be more than handy with her daggers also kept their tongues from wagging and their hands from roaming. She didn't need their friendship, just their acceptance of her as part of the crew. She had won that in the first port they'd entered, just days after they'd set sail from Ostwick. It was the first night many of the crew was onboard, as she and Isabela had sailed from Kirkwall with only a tiny compliment of sailors who could be scrounged from the docks and were immediately discarded once they'd made port. They knew exactly who she was and that meant they could not remain on the ship and that Hawke herself had remained scarce, she and Noodle confined to a quiet cabin far away from the hold the men slept in. During that first night after leaving Ostwick a small band of raiders had decided to descend on the ship and take it, recognizing that the crew was small and the ship was unfamiliar. After taking out 5 of the men who were set to slit throats in the crew quarters, literally saving their lives, the other sailors were more than happy to keep their mouths shut about her lack of sea-experience, her standoffish nature, and her lack of socializing.

Isabela had remained carefully neutral about her as well, making it clear that she was nothing special, just another part of the crew. Being overly familiar would invite questions that neither of them wanted to answer.

So, she toiled in the belly of the ship as they brought on supplies, hauling crates and strapping them down for the voyage ahead. They were planning on heading toward Rivain, though that might change on a whim or at word of an increase in Templars, guards, or bounty hunters from Isabela's well-placed contacts along the coasts. If they made it to Rivain they may stay, they may only resupply and set off again. It mattered very little to Hawke. She was breathing, she was free for the moment, and she had no home to return to. Where she spent her time was unimportant. She had herself convinced that this was not running away. That this was just another form of the thing she'd been doing her whole life – surviving.

She trusted that Fenris was well, that Aveline was likely furious, and that Brann would handle the nightmare she'd left in her wake and that was all she had it in her to concentrate on. She focused on the tasks at hand, what was immediately before her. No thinking of the future and definitely no thinking of the past. She worked, she ate, and she slept. Sometimes there were storms, sometimes the sea was calm. She had gone a week at this point without having spoken more than single words at a time to anyone on the crew or in port and some of the crew had begun to call her "the mute". Just one more thing that would differentiate her from any descriptions passed around. The Champion of Kirkwall, the Viscountess, was definitely not known for being quiet.

Crates finally secured, shirt and pants thoroughly drenched in sweat, she decided a break was in order and headed up a deck to the crew quarters to find a fresh water pail. None of the men were in their bunks or hammocks here in the middle of the day. They were off enjoying Antiva, probably all off in the same whorehouse – probably in the same whores at that. She pulled out the ladle and gulped down water over and over until her stomach sloshed and then moved over to her bunk. Dropping into a crouch she dug through her foot locker, which she never bothered to actually lock since she had nothing to steal unless one of her crewmates decided they desperately needed a pair of her smalls. She pulled out some clean clothes and stripped off what she'd been wearing. Jogging back over to the fresh water pail, she dumped a few ladleful's over herself, sluicing off the worst of the filth and sweat, before using one of the dry patches of her pants to dry herself off some and dressing again. It was a futile effort – in the Antivan heat she'd be drenched again before night came with its piddling respite, but since they were in port and able to take on fresh water she was determined to bath as often as she could. Once they'd gotten underway again it would be weeks of switching between pants and shirts that were only allowed to dry, shaken out, and then put on again, the salt stains moving in ever changing patterns day to day. At least she was sure her filth didn't offend anyone on the ship – she was easily the least smelly of them all, Isabela included.

As she was heading up the rope steps to the top deck to try to catch a breeze coming in from the ocean a shadow fell over her. Instinctively she went for her daggers before she even bothered to raise her eyes at whatever was blocking her path.

"Ah, so I see you at least have some of your senses left to you, my Champion." At hearing Zevran's voice she resheathed her daggers as she glanced up at him, sure he'd have that same smirk he always wore when he managed to catch her off guard. She wasn't disappointed.

"Hello, Zevran." She continued upward and he moved aside as she reached the top deck, allowing her to pass. The breeze up here was minimal, much to her disappointment. It only whispered across her face and failed to alleviate the intense oppressive humidity that clung to everything. "Need something?"

"I have a message for you from a friend. I thought I should come and deliver it to you personally. Isabela says that you will be leaving our fair Antiva in just a few days and I wanted to ensure that I was able to give my farewells."

Hawke turned toward Zevran and took the letter he had in an outstretched hand, nodding in thanks but not saying anything else, and immediately turning back to survey the long stretch of coast.

Zevran studied her for a moment, trying and failing to catch her eyes while she continued to study the horizon as if expecting an army to come marching over it at any moment. "You should allow me to take you and our lovely Isabela to dinner before you leave. Hard tack and salt pork do not seem to suit you, my Champion. You are not as… buxom… as I remember."

In truth, Hawke was barely eating anyway. The few months at sea had done a great deal to pull off the curves bestowed by the last few years of more than enough food and the last several months of more sitting around talking than acting and moving. Oh true, her muscles were strong and sinewy, but her ribs were far too apparent as were the hollows of her collar bones, the sharp little jut of her chin, and the top of her spine where each bone stood prominently enough that, at midday they each cast their own shadow on her skin. Hawke shrugged "They're food, Zevran, they'll suffice."

"Perhaps instead of dinner I could convince you to let me take you on a tour of the city? Isabela tells me you have only left the ship once to help with supplies. Surely you cannot be so enamored of the sea that you are not the least bit curious."

"I appreciate the offer, but no, thank you." Hawke sounded neutral, cold even. She did not speak harshly, but there was none of the charm, flirtation, or humor about her that Zevran had first encountered. Isabela had told him every detail of what happened in Kirkwall and he knew from her demeanor that the pirate's worries for her friend were well placed. This was a shell of a person, someone broken. He was intimately aware of the state a person must be in to be this hollowed out and knew that it often took extraordinary will to ever come back from it.

Affecting his usually devil-may-care demeanor, Zevran let out a dramatic sigh "Ah, well, you cannot fault a man for trying."

Hawke had surely heard him, but there was no flicker of recognition at his words. He had tried, and he was a busy man. He could not continue this today.

"I will only say this, my little bird of prey – Alistair is extremely worried about your well-being and has driven all of his messengers mad with his incessant asking after news of you. He is in Kirkwall, ignoring his own kingdom while he tries to discover your whereabouts. While he and I have not always seen eye to eye, I do feel that it would be a cruelty for you to not at least send him word yourself when you next make port. Tell the man that you are alive at least."

Hawke shook her head "You've already told him that, I'm sure, Zevran. He should have given up on me by now. It's foolish of him."

Zevran laughed "Yes, it is, truly. But he is also one of the most stubborn people I have ever met. And he is a stubborn fool who is clearly set on knowing you are well."

"I will take that under advisement, Zevran. Thank you." Hawke held out a hand for him to shake and Zevran took it, turning it so that he could lay a kiss on her knuckles.

"Until we meet again, my dear."

Hawke watched until Zevran melted into the traffic on the dock and then moved her eyes down to the letter in her hands. She stood there staring at it for a very long time, not really thinking about anything in particular, just letting the crush of memories of Alistair wash over her as she traced her own name in his script. Alistair was a little more real than she thought she was ready to deal with. Alistair invoked whole ranges of feelings that she had no control over. And that right now felt dangerous. Letting herself think about him lead to thinking about other things and she would not think of those things. Not yet, not for a long time if she could help it. She was sure that if she let herself think about it she'd be swept away on some current of rage she would be helpless in the midst of. Better to not think at all. Better to let sea air and toil and the patterns of work, food, and sleep take the place of thought.

She stood at the railing, fighting with herself about opening the letter until evening when Isabela sauntered back on board, stinking of whatever bar she'd been sitting in, swaying merrily with a hulk of a man who was trying his best to get her out of her kit before they'd even made it up the gang plank.

Spying Hawke at the railing, Isabela sent the man to her cabin with a coquettish little giggle and a slap on the rear. He only growled out "Hurry, Woman." And headed to her quarters. Isabela weaved her way over and slung her arm across Hawke's shoulder. "We should find you a man as well, you know. There are plenty in Antiva who are worth the time. Something in the blood – they make fantastic lovers. Lousy accountants, absolutely dreadful singers, but fantastic lovers."

Hawke nodded at Isabela "I'll take your word for it."

Isabela sighed "Look, sweet thing, I don't know how you feel and I won't pretend to. You have all the conscience between the two of us. But I do know that you need to stop punishing yourself, even if it hurts at first. You can't just pretend you don't feel anything and hope that it sticks. It doesn't work – believe me, I've tried. No one else would tell you this, but you're being a bloody coward and it makes me sick because you're better than that."

Before Hawke could even process a response, Isabela leaned over and gave her a sloppy kiss on the cheek. "I have a man to plow. Good night." And she was gone, off to her cabin where sounds of giggling and deep rumbling grunts of appreciation began to seep out not long after.

Hawke finally forced herself away from the rail and dug around in a small chest strapped to the deck for a flint. Using her dagger, she sparked up one of the oil lanterns bolted to the forecastle and settled beside it. After a deep breath, she opened the letter.

…  
Marian –

I know as much as I am able to about the Kirkwall and why you left. Fenris has shared as much as he is able – though I'm sure it would be more accurate to say as much as he is willing to share. He protects you even at this distance. Brann announced today that you are no longer in the city. Mother Clotilde wasted no time in placing a price on your head for return to her in Kirkwall or directly to the Divine in Orlais. You will find no safety among mages and the Templars and Chantry are actively seeking you. Their reach is far and they will use a great many tactics to try to get to you.

There are some advantages to being King – I can protect you, I can help you. I have resources at my disposal and I can provide whatever assistance you need. But you have to come to Denerim. I can do nothing while you're out there, wherever you are. Please make your way there. I expect nothing of you once you're within the borders of Ferelden beyond allowing me to help you. And once your safety is ensured, if you choose to leave I won't stop you. It is absolutely the last thing I want – I want you with me. But I will understand if you must leave.

Please, allow me to do this for you. Allow me to help you. You don't need to ask, you just have to accept.

I cannot just sit idly by knowing you are in danger, and not knowing why you have placed yourself there. If you cannot do this for yourself, then consider doing it for me.

Alistair

…

So Zevran had been right. Alistair was a stubborn fool. He was a stubborn fool who did not realize or did not care that where Hawke went death and pain followed. He was a stubborn fool who did not understand that she would never take shelter behind him while he suffered the brunt of the wrath being poured out at her. It was hers to suffer and endure, no matter how wrong it all was. Or hers to flee, if she were being honest with herself. He had no right to ask her to be protected from it and he certainly had no right to put himself between it and her.

She wasn't sure what she had expected Alistair to do; she had tried hard not to think about it. But offering her shelter in Denerim was still a surprise. Going over it now, the smartest thing he could have done was wash his hands of it and her completely, simply pretend they'd never known each other. It's what she would have expected from nobility and especially from a king. This though, this she wouldn't even have expected from her closest friends and maybe not have expected it from family. Even Isabela had to be guilted and bribed into giving her passage, arguing with Hawke the whole way about how stupid she was being.

At the end of the day, he was a good man – a better man than she felt she deserved to have in her life, in some ways. He was honest and true and strong. And, Maker, she wanted to be worthy of that kind of friendship, but was sure that she wasn't. She should have saved him from herself before this point. But she didn't have the courage and she'd been selfish. She'd wanted to go to Denerim after Anders' plot had come to fruition. She truly had. But then the city and the Templars and all the rest of them had turned their eyes to her again and saddled her with their need while bullying her for her actions the entire way. But she was sure that staying away from him was the first good decision she'd made in a long time. He didn't deserve her complications.

What she _wanted_ had rarely entered into her decisions before, why should it now? What she wanted and what she had to do were two very different things. And now there were no options. Now all she could do is what she must. She was finally alone and all she could do was survive, even if that survival was by inches. She couldn't put Alistair in a position of choosing between her and his country – and that's exactly what it would come down to if the Chantry pursued her and she were taking advantage of his… charity. Her happiness was not as important as his safety – especially when doing what would make her happy would definitely bring the full weight of the price of knowing her to bear on Alistair. She would endure without him and hope that he would come to realize that, in keeping herself away from him, she was showing him mercy and love in the only way she could.

Picking herself up from the deck, she headed back down to the crew quarters. She stashed the letter in her footlocker and crawled into bed. She'd write back in the morning and find some way to put into words all the ways she needed him and how they all came back to needing him to stay away.


	31. Chapter 31

Alistair made a nuisance of himself at the Hanged Man, arriving every day and making himself at home while waiting for Varric to return. It took two weeks for the man to finally appear, covered in road dust, looking disgusted with the world in general.

Varric stalked through the dockworkers and drunks and mine workers and refinery men and they all parted away from him, scooting in their chairs, reversing direction with just one glance at him. He was halted when a pair of legs didn't move out of his way. He raised his eyes at the solid wall of man who stepped in front of him, already twisting up his mouth to let out the spew of invective he had prepared when he realized who it was. Varric's mouth slammed shut with a clack and he and Alistair just stared at each other.

"I think you have some stories to tell me, Varric. How about we go up to your room and you unburden yourself?"

Sighing heavily, Varric felt his shoulders slump. "Don't suppose I could convince you to come back after I've had a bath and a nap?" Without bothering to wait for an answer, he skirted around the King and stomped up the stairs to his room.

The telling was pitifully short. Once Fenris told Varric that Hawke was gone, he went looking for her. He ended up picking his way slowly up the coast until ending up in Ostwick. There were docking officials and workers who were willing to talk about Isabela's ship and its general direction for minor bribes. Sending letters on to Antiva, he found a complete dearth of information. His contacts, loyal and willing to a fault, were still unwilling to upset the current Crow hierarchy by giving out information that wasn't for one of their cells, strained as they currently were with what could only be called a coup. It seemed that a single Crow was systematically taking over, dissolving cells, typically violently, and working his way up the chain.

To make matters worse, the rogue Crow in question was the one who had made it clear that anyone asking after Marian Amell, Marian Hawke, The Champion of Kirkwall, the Viscountess of Kirkwall, or anyone even vaguely Ferelden sounding would be met with a great deal of displeasure expressed without prejudice. He hadn't exactly said that she was under his protection – but he hadn't needed to.

Seeing the disappointment in Alistair's face, Varric pulled out a bottle of brandy and poured them both a measure.

After taking a healthy drink, Alistair eyed the dwarf for a long moment and then asked him "Why? Why go after her at all? I thought that you weren't exactly keen on Hawke these days."

"Well, I was wrong. Alright? I don't admit that often, but there it is. I … things just got off-kilter. I've known exactly how this city works from the moment I stepped foot here and everything she did once she had that circlet on her head screwed up the works. Ferelden refugees lauded as heroes for their work on the city, Nobles slumming it in Lowtown, the threat of a Divine March on the city… It's… For all its diseased and broken heart, Kirkwall is my home. I wouldn't expect you to understand, but she … changed it all. I couldn't look past it."

Alistair let that sink in for a minute, taking another sip of Brandy and letting the burn subside for a moment before speaking again. "And now?"

Grumbling, Varric shrugged. "Now I know better. Now I know I've been an ass. It only took one long meaningful look from Fenris and his damned green eyes of conscience to make that clear. And if I can track her down and… I don't know… make it right – I'm going to."

Alistair nodded. "Good, then we're both men with a mission."

He grimly clinked his glass against Varric's and took the rest of the brandy in a single gulp.

Coughing and spluttering, he beat on his chest. "That was a bad idea… my god… how do people drink this all the time?"

Varric, despite himself, started laughing. Men with missions... It wasn't too bad of a spot to be in, really.

…

Hawke found herself awake in a dark room. This was not where she should be. This was wrong. Breathe in, breathe out, and take stock.

Everything was hazy and her body felt… wrong… disconnected. It was difficult to piece things together. She'd left the ship with Noodle just after they made port in Llomeryn. In Ostwick they'd found some herbs that helped the mabari with his sea sickness. It hadn't been a surprise to Hawke that Noodle did not deal well with the sea – the trip to Kirkwall from Gwaren when they fled Ferelden had been interminable and stressful given how ill Noodle was the entire time. She hadn't stopped to consider it when she fled Kirkwall but it became apparent on the short trip to Ostwick that the problem had not simply gone away with time. Their herb supply, however, had run out. Despite Isabela scoped out the city the first night they were there, discovering an amazing array of wanted posters for Hawke. The Divine wanted her, and that had spawned at least three different groups of militia and mercenaries joining forces to put up their own wanted posters. All of them bore a disturbingly accurate image of her face taken from one of Varric's drawings – not one that had been in a book. All of the images Varric used for his publications were carefully changed enough to not really resemble her at all. This was a private drawing and it was extremely difficult for her to believe that Varric hadn't been paid to hand it over. Hell, maybe he handed it over all on his own without the coin. It was in that frame of mind that she'd stepped out into the city. Angry and hurt and distracted.

Isabela had cut her hair, the sun had deepened the tone of her skin, and her clothing was wildly different from anything she'd worn before. She looked far more like a pirate than any Kirkwaller or Ferelden she'd ever seen – a loose tunic, a scarf belted about her waist and a new weapon addition – a short sword strapped to her hip. She was heavily armed, as wary as always, and she knew exactly where she was going. Mabari were not common at all that far north, but she was also counting on the fact that Llomerryn was a wild place, a pirate island, with no love for authority. She found it hard to believe that any of the people she passed would run off to the guard to claim their reward – especially with Isabela's crew colors tied over her head.

But that's exactly what had happened. On her way back through the market from the herbalist who had been far too bemused about her request she'd been rushed by a whole group of men, at least six of them all together who swiftly clapped hands on her arms and pulled her into the nearest alleyway. They'd fought, Hawke kicking and scratching until she was freed enough to pull her daggers. She was sure at least two of them had been maimed if not killed and another definitely bled to death as Noodle grabbed hold of a throat with the intent of tearing it out. Someone set off some kind of smoke bomb that made her woozy. She remembered hearing Noodle crying out, a whimper of pain from somewhere in the fog. Then a swift hit to the head and… nothing.

Swallowing against the raw feel of her throat she realized she'd been gagged and her tongue was swollen in her mouth. She could feel her lips crack when she pulled them back to explore the gag with her tongue. Some kind of cloth shoved into her mouth and then a rough cord that dug into the corners of her mouth was tied around it to hold it in place.

Looking around the room and testing her muscles, she took an inventory. Her head was still fuzzy, as if she couldn't really shake off the last vestiges of sleep. Her hands when she rubbed her fingers together still felt sticky from blood. The room was dark but just a little light leaked in under a door to her right. It wasn't enough to see by and gave her no further clues as to where she was. Wiggling around slightly she noticed that she had no boots on, just a shirt and trousers. Her ankles and wrists were bound, pulled tight to the – with a little shake of her body she confirmed – the table she was tied down to. Both her eyes seemed to be working well enough, and an experimental roll of her head along the hard surface of the table told her that she didn't have any head wounds beyond a bit of a goose egg that caused her to wince. That was good.

Her wrists and ankles were both incredibly raw where the rope was. Twisting her hands slightly she could feel along part of the rope – it was thick and roughhewn, exactly the kind of rope they'd used for most of the rigging on the ship. She couldn't find easy access to the knots that tied them there just yet, and she wasn't sure if untying herself yet would be sound. Not until she had a better sense of where she was. Let whoever who had done this think that she was still out cold.

Flexing muscles experimentally she discovered that she had tough knots of abused muscles in her legs, along her stomach, and especially in her ribs where she was sure she had at least a few cracked if not outright broken ribs. Breathing deeply confirmed her suspicion. That would definitely slow her down. Her joints all seemed to be in working order as far as she could tell, but her feet and her hands were nearly numb with the lack of blood flow going to them and it was impossible to tell if they still functioned properly or if anything was broken.

She realized that the air in the room felt cold. But that could be an illusion. She felt weak and light headed. The cold of the room could be shock or lack of food or several other things. Some sleeping draughts had a chilling effect as well. But if she really were feeling the coolness of the air then that meant that she was most likely underground, assuming she was still in Rivain. She was definitely on dry land, not a ship.

As she continued her careful movements, trying to strain her eyes for a sense of the room she was in, there was shuffling on the other side of the door. She didn't bother pretending that she was still asleep. Normally her instinct would have been to play dead, but in this case she needed any idea at all what she was up against.

The light from the hall as the door fell open was blinding, causing her eyes to slam shut. She fought to open them back up, eyes streaming as she tried to make sense of what was in the doorframe. 3, no, 4 figures, moving into the room. All of them men and possibly one more out in the hall. They talked to each other in Rivaini, which she knew very little of and not enough to understand their half mumbled discussion, full of slang words and rushed together enunciation.

They certainly noticed that she was awake and they stayed back in the shadows of the room for the most part but one of them came near and leaned over her. He was on the ship – one of a group of men they'd taken on in Antiva to replace a few of the crewmen who Isabela wasn't interested in keeping. He had the dark hair and eyes that were common to Antivans and lacked several teeth in the front. He had had been constantly grinning at everyone like life on a ship had been the jolliest time of his life. He stood out among the other crewmen for that, for his thick Antivan accent, and the impressive scar that ran from forehead to chin and that had robbed him of an eye, the socket left hanging open and uncovered. His age was difficult to discern since he had that sea-bitten leathery skin that could have marked him as a very hard 30 or a pleasing 80. He might even have been handsome at some point before his life had robbed him of so many portions of his face.

He was grinning down at her, mumbling Rivaini to his hidden friends and leaning across her to untie her hands. Several hands came out of the shadows to clamp down on her arms as first one and then the other came free of the ropes. They pulled her roughly up from the table and set a bowl of broth between her knees. The Smiling Antivan gestured at it and made a drinking motion before he reached up and pulled out her gag. Someone from the darkness said "Drink the broth. You won't get another chance for food today." She couldn't place the accent – something between Antivan and Orlesian, a smooth voice, pleasant sounding.

As much as she hated herself for it, she was eager for the broth – she felt like she hadn't eaten in days and maybe she hadn't. She very slowly reached out for the bowl, feeling the hands on her shoulders bite down in a warning when she began to move. She brought the bowl to her lips and began to drink, thankful that it was just plain, unsalted broth with some kind of vaguely earthy, herbaceous flavor underneath. The salt in a proper soup would leave her thirstier than before. Her lips cracked and bled against the edge of the bowl, but she took her time, knowing that if she rushed it she may find it coming right back up far too quickly for it to have done her any good.

The moment the bowl was empty it was snatched away from her and she was pushed roughly back down to the table where she was held as her hands were retied. She winced at the bite of the rope into her already sore and bleeding wrists but kept from crying out. When she was tied back up, gag back in place, the men shuffled back out of the room and closed the door. It was only moments later that she realized that the broth had likely been drugged as well but it was too late. Her hands were too far away to force a finger down her throat to bring it back up, which would have been prevented by the gag anyway, and the edges of her consciousness were already unraveling.

…

Time had passed since she'd last been fully awake. She had some fleeting memories of voices around her, someone jabbing her hard in the legs with something, hands touching her face – but they were all too hazy to really grasp onto or make sense of. She was sure that she had slapped back at those touches, pulled away, fought against it, but the memory wouldn't resurface completely. She could have imagined it. She was no longer on the table. The pull in her shoulders and the scream of overstretched tendons in her arms and wrists made that abundantly clear. She was hanging from her arms and she could feel her feet scraping against the floor. Trying to stand she saw she had just enough slack that she could put the balls of her feet down to take the weight off her arms, but not enough to ease the burning ache in her shoulders. Her ankles were tied together and tethered to something behind her. She was tied up in the corner of the room, ropes connected to each wrist and pulled tight, keeping her range of mobility to a minimum.

The gag was still in place and there were some new pains. Breathing was difficult – the pain moving around her ribs and no longer just on one side. Whoever had been beating her had apparently decided to branch out. Her knees and ankles seemed sound, but her left eye felt swollen – she couldn't open it completely.

There was a lamp hanging over a table in the center of the room and this time it was lit, allowing her to see the size and shape of the room where before there had been only shadows. The wall closest to her right hand, directly opposite the wall with the door, was earthen. Taking her weight on her screaming shoulders, she lifted her feet to press against the wall and confirmed what she had suspected; it was cool to the touch. She was definitely underground. The other three walls were rough stone and the wood on the floor was rough planks, unfinished and splintered. These weren't living quarters, they were most likely in a storage basement and maybe one that was largely abandoned or forgotten. So even if she could make noise and hope someone would actually answer a call for help – unlikely in her experience – she would not be heard at all.

It felt like hours before anyone came in to check on her. She spent the time picking feebly at the rope on her wrist with twisted fingers, hoping to at least loosen it some before the rough weave did too much damage to her fingertips for her to continue. The fatigue in her legs and arms caused her to tremble, every muscle and tendon protesting no matter how she shifted her weight or arched her back to find some position that would give her some relief.

The door swung roughly open, slamming into the wall and rattling the lamp suspended above the table. Vertiginous shadows swung around the room as the group of men entered, another group of 4, though she was sure she saw another in the shadows beyond the door this time. And she could see part of a door frame and more of a rough stone hallway beyond their shoulders before the door was closed again.

The men were speaking among themselves, again in Rivaini. The Smiling Antivan was smirking at her from the back of the group and she tried to focus on each face in turn, memorizing as much as possible about their faces, their height, identifying marks, the cut of their clothes, anything at all that she could learn. In her current position she couldn't panic, she could only gather details and hope that they would somehow prove useful. She wasn't scared, she wasn't even angry – at them anyway – she was more than a little angry at herself for being an idiot. But that gave her fuel to make it right, to make it out of here and back on the ship and away. She wouldn't escape Kirkwall's slow death just to fall into a slightly faster one.

The man closest to her, a short man, middle aged with a wiry frame and with stumpy, rough fingers that spoke of manual labor, yanked the gag out of her mouth and grabbed her face roughly, turning it right and left while he gestured and talked to his fellows. He then took his hand away and used it to pull up her shirt, poking at the various scars there on her abdomen, digging in far more than necessary as she tried to squirm back from him. At this apparent lack of obedience, he hauled back a hand and smacked her across the face hard, leaving her ears ringing and her eyes watering. Her temper was completely lost then. When he grabbed ahold of her face again, she twisted her neck and bit down hard in the webbed space between his forefinger and thumb, shaking her head to help her teeth sink in and do more damage.

There was screaming and yelling. One of the men, the tallest among them, with carefully slicked back hair and better dressed than the others, came forward and drove a fist into her stomach. It caused her to pull back and the man's hand was finally released, but she brought a piece of flesh with her in the process. She spit it into the face of the man who had punched her as the man with the hands scrambled out of the room, yelling all the way down the hall with one of his fellows following him, leaving his rescuer alone with her in the room.

The man who punched her wiped the blood of his face with a neatly folded handkerchief he pulled from a pocket and looked at her, eyes burning in a way that some quiet sane bit of her brain told her she should be frightened of. She grinned back at him, toothy and wide, letting the blood dribble down her chin. "Treat me like an animal and that's what you'll get." Her voice was hoarse and ragged, alien to her own ears.

"And here we were discussing what a good little captive you'd been. We were just coming in for a nice chat and you had to go and spoil it." He punctuated his statement with another fist driven into her midsection, causing her empty stomach to clench and heave. She stayed still then once the waves of nausea passed, waiting for the trembling in her limbs to cease.

The Punching Man settled himself on the edge of the table and made a show of wiping off his hands with his handkerchief before tossing it at her where it bounced to the ground. "So, little captive – what is your name?"

They took her without knowing who she was? What was this about? "Lauren", she ground out through clenched teeth.

The punching man laughed "No, my pet – what is your real name. We know that you went by "Lauren" while on that ship of your friend's. But we know it is not truly your name."

Hawke stayed quiet. The Punching Man stood and brought the back of his heavily bejeweled right and across her left cheek; she felt the trickle of blood from where the metal and jewels had bit deep. "We can continue to beat you for each answer but it is not my preference. Whether you are who we are looking for or not you'll fetch a better price whole – especially if we can make sure your face doesn't get too ugly. Unfortunately your body is already too damaged for that." He made his point by lifting up her tunic and appraising her torso, running the backs of his cool fingers down her sides and around her navel, causing her to twitch.

Hawke remained quiet – she was used to this ploy. Tell the woman she's ugly to make her feel small. It had never really worked on her and it wasn't about to start now. The man had continued talking "Of course there will always be those men and women who have a particular fetish for the macabre. Maybe we could sell you off to them, yes? Someone who enjoys these types of disgusting scars." He pinched the puckered skin over one scar as he spoke.

"So, you should know that, no matter who you are, you'll be sold off to people who will do with you whatever they want. It's all the same to us." He shrugged and took a seat on the edge of the table, crossing his arms over his chest. "It would be in your best interest, however, to be honest. So… I ask again… what is your name?"

Hawke had been running through possibilities as to who would kidnap her without even knowing for sure who she was. If they were expecting her to be the Champion, the Viscountess, wouldn't they know? And if they were just grabbing someone to sell into slavery, wouldn't she be handed over to slavers at this point? The fact that they were more than willing to hit her in the face told her that these weren't slavers. They counted on women to be pretty to get a decent price and they would much rather whip her than actually slap or punch her. This man questioning her had light brown hair, combed back from his forehead. He had very fine, nearly regal features and expressive dark eyes. His mouth seemed a little too broad and the lips a little too full, making him more pretty than masculine and striking in a way that he was obviously well aware of. His build was also on the fine-boned side and the shirt and pants he wore were finely tailored, skimming his physique in a way that made it clear that he took pride in his attractiveness and used it to his benefit. There was something cat-like in the way he moved, something sinuous that put Hawke in mind of danger. And if this dangerous man were going to continue to interrogate her, it would get worse than some punches.

So she told him "I'm Marian Hawke."

"Ahh… so now we get somewhere. It is good to know that Alphonse's information was correct."

Hawke decided to just keep going "And who do I have the pleasure of speaking to, please?"

The punching man smirked and then waved a finger at her "tsk tsk tsk, so presumptuous. You do not need to know who I am. You need only remember that when I ask you questions, you answer them."

"Not even knowing what I might call you when we talk is hardly good form. Developing a report – that's important, isn't it? So I can relate to you as a person – trust you. If you're just a nameless captor, well, what reason do I have to remain obedient?" Throat still causing her voice to come out as more of a croak than anything else, Hawke wasn't able to put her full persuasive force into her voice, but was determined that she was not going to crumple in front of this man.

The Punching Man laughed at her again and punched her hard in the thigh, causing the muscle to spasm and jump and for her feet to fall out from underneath her suddenly. She took her full weight on her shoulders and felt her left shoulder pull out socket at the sudden jarring. She screamed through her teeth, breathing hard as she tried to blink away the black spots that filled her vision.

"You will remain obedient because pain will remind you to. Keep that in mind the next time you think you can charm your way out of this, Miss Marian Hawke. You are my prisoner here. You will do as I say, when I say it for as long as you are here. Being stubborn about it will not help you. And no one is coming to save you."

He left her then, chuckling as he left the room. So they hadn't known who she was for sure. The Smiling Antivan had somehow pieced it together and informed whoever he could when they made port. And they were going to sell her off to… someone. But they were going to do that no matter what – who she was simply determined the buyer.

She knew the Templars had a bounty on her. She also knew that the Mage Collective would be more than happy to have her in their hands as an example, though why exactly she wasn't sure. And she knew that the Champion of Kirkwall would make a fine pet for any number of Magisters in Minrathous, so selling her off to a slaver was a distinct possibility as well. In addition, a contingent of nobles in Kirkwall had set a bounty on her as well, apparently displeased enough with her rule and her subsequent flight that they were willing to open their coin purses for mercenaries just so they could continue to squawk at her.

Until she had more opportunity to get free, she'd have to bide her time. And she should probably stop pissing them off so that she'd actually be able to fight when that moment came.

…..

It was 4 meals later when she saw the Punching Man again. 4 meals could have been any number of days since they didn't feed her consistently. In the longest stretch of time she'd been awake without being drugged she counted 2 meals but the scruff on the face of the man who always brought her the thin broth they gave her had grown for at least a couple of days. She figured she was getting fed once every two or three days and the weakness was sorely felt. They'd continued to drug her as well but it seemed more sporadic and not the constant sedation she'd been under before. She'd been taken down finally from the ropes in the corner after being left to hang there through several cycles of sleeping and waking, trying to take all of her weight on her one good shoulder and her feet. While she was asleep they had begun the process of taking her down and she'd fought without thinking – foolishly. Her thumbs sunk deep into one man's eyes, blinding him surely, possibly killing him. Another had a broken arm and they'd only stopped her through a sheer glut of bodies coming into the fray and her own shaken awareness allowing them to overwhelm her and dash her head against the wall until she'd passed out.

When she woke again it was to find herself thrown into a corner, bound with her hands to a ring set in the wall, ropes around her ankles and knees and a new rope around her neck, tied down to another ring in the wall so she had a more limited range of motion, but was not constantly suffering the agony of hanging from her wrists. They had not, however, repaired her ribs or her shoulder and the dislocation was feverish against her cheek when she bent her head down to it and it throbbed mercilessly. She almost wished they'd drug her again.

The Punching Man had that insufferably smug smile on his face and was still well groomed, in his nicely tailored clothes. He didn't look like someone who had risen and who was trying to pull off the look – he looked born to this level of affluence. The fabrics were well made, and his shoes were impeccable. He looked like the sort of man who would need a guard wherever he went to keep all the itchy fingered pick pockets away. His accent was also difficult to pin down. He seemed Antivan but it wasn't a very clear Antivan accent. There were hints of Orlais, hints of Nevarra… Hawke had been thinking about who exactly this man might be, but without knowing more about the Rivain underworld it would be impossible for her to ever really find out.

The Punching Man leaned back on the table across from her and crossed his arms, looking relaxed and happy. "You should know that the bidding war for you is going along quite well, my pet. There were more interested parties than we had expected, frankly. You are a very popular girl! So many people want you or want you dead."

Hawke was currently gagged and so could only watch him. She didn't even bother to make a noise. He would deal with her mouthy and sarcastic or not at all. She wasn't going to give him the satisfaction of having her grunt at him.

"Is it because of the great many people you have killed yourself? Your own sister among them? Tell me – what is it like to put your own flesh and blood to the knife? Was there perhaps some… satisfaction in it? Rumor has it that she was indeed the beauty of the family. Perhaps it was not darkspawn at all that drove you, but some hint of jealousy?"

He paced around the room a little as he spoke, giving an air of casualness to his questions. He's been on this tact every time he spoke to her, acting as if he were diagnosing her character, trying to understand her. This was a game to him, obviously. She was a toy for him to idle away the time with and he'd begun spending more and more time in her presence. Often she would wake up to find him there, watching her.

"From what I understand, you've always been something of a feral little beast. Even as Champion of Kirkwall and then Viscountess you could not find a man to have you. Amazing really. How terrible must your company be that not even sniveling inbreds would take you to their bed?"

He grinned down at her as he resettled at the edge of the table. He'd discussed the fact that she killed people, brought up her lack of a love life, and soon he'd circle back to making some sort of comment about her mother dying to a mage and how she sided with the Templars in what had already begun being called The Kirkwall Mage Rebellion – all capital letters implied. This was his routine and though he hadn't yet found anything to get her to react, he was still trying. He'd stopped his casual beatings of her, it seemed. He hadn't laid a hand on her in any way at all for what she was going to call a week. But she couldn't be sure. She hadn't cried out at all since her shoulder had been dislocated. Pretending to be immune to the pain was a mind game more for herself than anything else.

"I have wondered for some time what the allure of Ferelden women might be. Frankly, I have not been impressed. Sure, you're feisty. But you lack a certain… subtlety that should come with femininity in my opinion. You are more like brash men in dresses. Or maybe it is the influence of your dogs, no?" He laid his head back and laughed at that, thoroughly amused with himself.

Hawke remained completely impassive, just watching him. She was careful to keep any emotion from showing on her face, even down to making sure that the muscles around her eyes didn't twitch. He wouldn't get the satisfaction of a response. This routine was for his own enjoyment and though she could do little about it, she certainly wouldn't add to it.

"It is strange to me that your muddy little country has come to such prominence." Here he stood and crouched in front of her, just inches away, hands hanging easily between his knees as he made a show of looking her over, pushing a shock of hair out of her eyes. "Defeating a blight and then crowning a Grey Warden – bold moves and in such a short amount of time. And it is said that the royal house does not even have a cell of assassins in its employ." He shook his head at this "Very strange indeed." He seemed to be thinking over this mystery while he continued to watch her.

"You have beautiful eyes. Has anyone ever told you that?" Here his thumb passed along her cheek, fingertips curled under her jaw. "They are truly lovely. I can imagine how you might look in different circumstances, how having those eyes turned on me with the fire of lust might be alluring."

His fingers trailed down her face, over the rope that held her gag in place and along her chin "But I'd settle for even a little fire of hate." He made a show of examining her face as if seeking a reaction. "No? You don't think so? Come, speak up."

He reached out and roughly shook her by her left shoulder, the overstretched tendons screamed and she felt the dislocated bones scrape and burn, letting out a guttural moan involuntarily, her eyes clamping shut.

The Punching Man laughed at that "Not so stoic after all, my pet!"

He stood with an easy grace, unfolding to his full height and then leaning over, speaking quietly and close into her ear.

"I will find all the ways in which you can be broken, Marian Hawke. I promise you that. And I will enjoy being the one who watches you fall to pieces."

The Punching Man laughed again and Marian couldn't be sure at what he was laughing. Had her expression slipped? Or did it even matter anymore? Still chuckling to himself he sauntered from the room, shutting the door behind him and Hawke let her head fall back against the wall.

…..

Alistair had put off setting sail back to Kirkwall as long as he could. In the next two days they would have to head back, a lead on Hawke found or not. He'd been using his quarters there on the ship mainly because he'd begun to attract too much attention hanging around the Hanged Man like a ghost. He had no great love of ships – some part of him always somewhat superstitious about them given how his father was lost at sea – but this one… this one he liked. The crew was competent and quiet, following the lead of his guards in acting as if he were just another passenger and not making a fuss every time he appeared on deck. But he was in a state, to be honest. She wasn't here and no one knew where she was and the not knowing was making him feel cracked and hopeless.

He'd been pacing the deck all morning, watching the comings and goings of the port. Some stupid part of him kept expecting to simply see her in the crowd. A few times he even thought he did before they turned and it was clear that they weren't Hawke – sometimes not even close.

Therefore, he spotted Varric and Fenris, laden with packs and making for the ship like they were being chased by wolves well before they saw him. He managed to position himself at the top of the gankplank and restrain himself from running off through the crowds toward them but only just.

Varric, puffing and and waving gave up on trying to explain and just shoved a letter at Alistair as he and Fenris made their way on deck.

….

Varric –

They have her. I'm in Llomerryn. You know where to look. Hurry.

I

….

It was all he needed to know. Even as the words made his stomach drop out, he felt the clench of his shoulder muscles and the grit of his teeth. They made way out of Kirkwall within the hour. The speed of the ship should get them to Llomerryn within a week if the winds held and he found himself fantasizing about what he would do to the people who had taken Hawke when he caught up with them, the notion of doubting that they'd find her at all never entering his mind.


	32. Chapter 32

In the long stretches of time when she was not being dumbly stared at, beaten for fun by any number of the random assortment of men who made their way through the room she was kept in, or taunted by the Punching Man, Hawke worked at the bonds around her wrists and tried to force herself to plan – something, anything. Think through all the outcomes, the opportunities, the eventualities. Count how long the door was open when certain people came in. Count how long the beatings went on. Memorize faces – every single one of them.

As her fingers picked at the ropes, she thought about all the men she was going to kill and how she was going to kill them.

First, there were the ones who came to beat her. For the most part, it seemed that they were amused that they got the chance to hit someone supposedly famous. She was sure that they got off on it. Men intimidated by their wives, gathering around to take out their frustrations on a woman with no repercussions. She couldn't hit them back. She couldn't even yell at them like their wives or their mothers could, making them feel small and worthless. She wondered if the Punching Man was charging admission, but with their skittishness, eyes thrown over shoulders, jumping at noises in the hall, she was sure he wasn't.

Typically they started off full of bile and venom, being goaded on by their friends. But after a hit or two – many of them utterly feeble, pointlessly weak attacks – when she failed to cry and wail and cower, they'd lose their taste for it and grow bored with the whole enterprise. What good was a woman to beat on if she wasn't even going to look upset? What good was a woman to beat on if she didn't beg for their mercy? If the Punching Man were indeed getting coin out of this little sideshow she was sure he was also getting requests for refunds. She hoped their wives beat them mercilessly for every perceived slight for the rest of their lives. She wouldn't hunt them, but if they ever crossed her path again she'd gladly show them how real punches should be thrown, how to make someone hurt and beg.

The only ones who didn't back down, who didn't grow bored were the ones who came alone. They didn't need friends to goad them into action. They were there because they liked it. And it didn't matter that she didn't cry or react. It was fist meeting flesh, causing bruises, raising welts, and that was all they really wanted. One of them had lamented to her that she wasn't naked so he could see the marks he'd left with his belt. It didn't stop him, but it was obviously a disappointment to him. Those were the faces she would hunt. Those were the faces of men who needed to be put down for the good of anyone who crossed their paths.

Surprisingly no one touched her in any other way. Was that their leader's intervention? It had to have been. She'd seen far too many obviously lustful leers, experienced too much heavy heated breathing down her neck when they escorted her to the bucket she relieved herself in after being drugged enough not to fight. She wasn't enough of a threat to them, unarmed, drugged, starved as she was for it to be anything other than fear of the man who had pulled them all together.

And then there was the Punching Man. Him she would kill. She would find him and kill him and enjoy it. She'd take her time.

It was easy to dismiss him as something smooth, soft. He looked like every noble she'd ever seen in Kirkwall – a fair sight more attractive – but at a glance just as incapable of lifting a weapon and defending himself or truly intimidating anyone as any of the waist coated and coifed dandies she'd had dealings with. But though she never saw him truly fight or so more than move around the room as he talked, there was a smoothness to his movements that belied his skill if one was inclined to see it. She still didn't know what he was, where that skill had come from – but she knew he was dangerous. Obviously dangerous enough to hold a group of at least twenty men in check against their desires even when he wasn't around.

In that first week when he'd come to her, it was with groups of men. He'd prod at her, punch her legs to cause painful spasming muscles, twist his knuckles into her shoulders, and often take out her gag and question her. Something that sounded utterly innocuous like a request to hear about her friends would swiftly become an exercise in conditioned response until he heard what he wanted. His question would be asked, she'd eventually answer. Then she'd be hit or kicked. He would ask again and she would guess at what the proper answer was, inevitably getting it wrong over and over until he decided that she finally gave the right response. But the questions were directionless, and were obviously done to show off to his cohorts who stood smirking along the walls during these little demonstrations.

But then he started coming alone more and more. And when he was there alone he left her gag in but talked far more. He loved to hear himself talk. He'd tell her in great detail everything he knew about her. And the vast majority of it was completely accurate. He wasn't working off of Varric's tall tales – he knew things about her that no one knew, things Varric didn't know. The villages she'd lived in, when she'd acquired certain skills, what weaknesses she had in fights such as her lousy abilities with a bow. Hearing him name her friends, the villages she only half remembered the names of in Ferelden… He'd obviously studied her – far more than anyone ever had as far as she knew.

He seemed utterly disinterested in her own perspective on these things, given that he never allowed her to speak. But he reveled in letting her know just how much about her he was aware of. He also began spending more time crouched in front of her, up close, looking into her eyes and studying her face as if he were searching for something specific that hadn't yet emerged. He'd ask after how she felt, if the other men had treated her poorly, seeming to completely disregard the fresh bruises on her neck and face, the new tears in her shirt from belt lashes and the blood that seeped from those wounds.

The more he spoke, the clearer it became to Hawke that he was not just cruel, not just a vile man – but broken. His voice became gentle and kind in some moments only to be filled with barely contained mirth the next. He was either doing a fantastic job of playing a madman for his own amusement or he was dangerously unstable. And to Hawke's mind, either could be true.

She woke up to him there more and more often. Her sense of time was wildly distorted but it felt as if, as time passed, he became jealous of his time with her. The other men visited far less often. He even began bringing broth to her himself on the few occasions when she was fed. When he began spending time on his knees in front of her, dirtying his fine clothing, his face just inches from hers, not speaking or moving but just watching… Hawke acutely felt that her time there was running short.

….

Alistair let out a frustrated sigh after hearing the latest report from Isabela. They'd been through three different slaver dens, mowing down all in their path based on the rumors and potential leads she'd found. Her information had improved greatly since he'd arrived, having handed over a substantial purse that helped lend weight to the requests she made of her contacts.

Against the wishes of his guard, Alistair had been at the front line of each of these forays into dark tight spaces where people were often kept. The slave trade was a constant fixture of coastal cities like Llomeryn and boltholes for hiding people away were common. They'd come up completely empty the first two times and the third had uncovered a group of very young children – not one of them over the age of 10. They'd been able to get the children out of there and sent to the single Chantry on the mainland of Rivain, but it was completely haunting to Alistair, especially discussing the fact with Fenris that there was every possibility that these children had been sold by their own families. Seeing how dirty and neglected they all were he could only imagine what had been done to Hawke, a grown woman fully capable of defending herself even without weapons. These were children, easily subdued and their captors wanted them whole and largely unharmed or they would be unable to sell them. They were not a dangerous wanted woman being sought out by dangerous people who would have little regard for their wellbeing beyond still being able to talk.

Varric and Fenris, Noodle in tow, had been scouting the city ceaselessly since they'd arrived 5 days ago, looking for information, signs, patterns, anything that might help point to where Hawke was being held. But Mabari aren't tracking dogs and over three weeks in a place like Llomerryn was far too long for a scent to stay active. So he became an additional layer of protection and another set of eyes. He'd been injured in the fight that took Hawke and without those knowledgeable with Mabari physiology or even Ash Warriors who may know enough to put him back together whole his wounds had taken far longer to heal than he had liked. The hound still trotted along with a slight limp to his injured leg, stoic and still going out of its way to look intimidating and strong. He would like to think that Hawke was doing the same – Mabari tended to choose masters like themselves.

The assumption was that she was still being held. But as every day passed his hope continued to dim. It was possible the kidnapping had been for the sport of whoever had planned it. It was possible that she'd already been ransomed off to someone and was no longer in Rivain. If she'd been taken expressly for the Templars, he had little hope of finding her here in the city.

Isabela was sure that one of her sailors had been involved, someone they'd picked up in Antiva who was very distinctive and who could not move about freely in Rivain without being noticed. He'd gone missing the same day Hawke had. Unfortunately for them, one eyed, heavily scarred sailors weren't as uncommon as she'd originally thought.

"I say we check out this place. It's at least worth a shot." Isabela was saying, hand on hip, challenging Alistair to disagree.

"Yes, everything is worth a shot at this point, but how sure are you really about this information. And if you say it's a "sure thing" like you've done every other time I can't be held responsible for my actions – I'm warning you now."

From the look on Isabela's face "it's a sure thing" was exactly what she'd been about to say. Instead she corrected herself to "It's a good bet."

Alistair gave her a look, but in truth he couldn't be too angry with her. She'd been at this for weeks and most of that time was completely on her own. She'd barely slept in that time and though she did an admirable job of hiding it, it was clear that she was extremely worried about Hawke. The fact that she'd been taken from them in Isabela's home, what she considered safe harbor had been plaguing her far more than she was willing to admit. After her frantic search of the city she'd return to the ship threating lashings and torture to any crewmen who didn't come forward with information.

As far as they could tell, Alphonse had worked alone among the crew. No one knew what he was up to. Most of the crew was blind drunk the night before she was taken – courtesy of Alphonse's coin – and so were unwilling to believe at first that he'd done anything to a member of their crew. A search of Alphonse's footlocker revealed a few nearly illegible notes that seemed to indicate a correspondence with someone in Rivain who was looking for Hawke and a description of her that generally fit with a much more detailed – and disturbing for all the detail – description of her scars. Scars that no one but perhaps her closest circle of friends would have actually known the details of unless those descriptions had been meticulously pieced together from information about wounds she'd taken throughout the years.

This latest rumor they were planning to chase involved a sub-basement below a tailor's shop which was sometimes rented out. It had been rented nearly two months ago by a single man who did not have a name to share, but enough coin to make that issue go away. That would have been just about the time that Hawke left Kirkwall, before she was listed as wanted. Which would also mean that whoever had rented the place hadn't done so with the sole intention of holding her there – they'd already had the location when the possibility of capturing her fell into their lap. While the tailor would never give up information on exactly who was renting the space, there were bound to be people coming and going and perhaps some pattern that they could discern.

The plan was to set up watch on the tailor shop along with Noodle. If she was there, actively being held, there was a chance he'd be able to sniff her out. If not, then they could at least figure out if she'd ever been there and perhaps have a look around the cellars themselves if they could find a way in without having to kill the shopkeeper. Alistair had been very clear with Isabela – no killing that wasn't necessary. Luckily for them, "necessary" to Alistair had a fairly broad definition. But shopkeepers who were renting a space did not land on the list.

They had all been living off of the small ship they'd come there on, despite Isabela's ship having far more room. The day they arrived they did go onto the Siren's Call II to see what had been left behind by Alphonese and Hawke. Hawke had very little in her footlocker – a change of clothes, a set of knives and thick bore needles and heavy sail stitch thread for repairs – very standard "sailor" stuff. Alistair had been wondering if this was really all she'd left Kirkwall with when Isabela piped up and told them the rest of her things were locked in the captain's quarters.

He felt a little odd rifling through her things, but Fenris confirmed that there was nothing there out of the ordinary nor anything that stood out as being lost or tampered with. She'd taken clothing, coin, and armor but left nearly everything else behind outside of a journal, hoping that if there was anything meaningful she didn't bring with her she could count on Fenris to collect it for her and send it on to wherever she ended up. She'd fled enough homes in her life to know how to travel lightly and she'd taken only the essentials. There was not a scrap of memorabilia or personally identifying information to be had outside of the journal and Varric was sure that the knotted cord around it was how Hawke closed it herself and that it hadn't been tampered with. So either whoever took her knew exactly what she looked like – something Isabela felt was very unlikely – or they were working through a good guess.

Isabela also confirmed she looked a little different than she had when they'd left Kirkwall. Hawke had lost weigh while they were at sea – she wasn't eating much or sleeping much. The sun had also bleached out her hair, giving her a great deal of blond highlight, and darkened her skin. And Isabela had also cut Hawke's hair the first night they were on the Siren's Call II, before they even made port in Antiva – so it wasn't as if she had been striding around the ship completely recognizable this whole time. Isabela swore that, if it weren't for the blonde hair, Hawke could have been mistaken for Rivaini with her strange multi-colored eyes and the clothing that marked her as more a pirate than anything else.

Alistair didn't know what was worse – the idea that they knew exactly who they had – which might make her more valuable -, or the idea that they thought she was a random woman, usable for whatever they wanted.

When Fenris and Varric arrived back at the ship, Isabela filled them in on the details. Alistair's guard was in random civilian armor and so was he. Nothing showy, nothing that clearly marked him as a king. They broke up into small groups and set to wandering about the city, taking shifts watching the tailor shop.

There was definitely too much foot traffic in and out of the place for it to be simply functioning as a tailor, but the amount of time they spent inside before they came back out seemed to make sense. No one was entering and lingering. Alistair assumed that these were runners and messengers for whoever might be holding Hawke inside. Following up on that assumption, Fenris and Noodle followed one of the men as he left and pulled him into a side alley, neatly knocking him out so that Fenris could rifle through his pockets.

He came up with a note:

_The price is currently 650. What is your bid?_

He slipped the note back into the man's pocket where he'd found it and took his purse instead. When he woke, he would assume he'd been mugged, but would still be able to deliver the message and the bargaining would go on, hopefully without anyone realizing that anyone was on to their location.

When they all regrouped at the docks later that evening, Fenris confirmed what he'd found. They decided to go back out to the Tailor shop in force as early as possible, before the shop officially opened for business. The waiting, even a few hours now, was interminable for Alistair. His first instinct was to rush in there right now. A few hours shouldn't matter in the face of the fact that she'd been gone for nearly a month. But it was different knowing she might actually be there – so close.


	33. Chapter 33

They moved out when the moon was still in the sky and the first signs of dawn would be at least an hour behind. Llomerryn streets were never truly empty and stalls were already being set up in the market for the morning trade. The group of soldiers weren't moving in stealth, however, and as their small army made way their quickly to the tailor shop it was with all the determination of a fighting force going to war. The King's Guards had made the valiant effort of asking the king to stay behind but they knew at this point that it would be a fruitless request. They'd been there themselves while he'd fought all this way and, even if they hadn't already known his fighting skills by reputation, they were surely aware of them by now. He needed guardsmen merely because of his status, not because he couldn't fight for himself. Not a one of them would have volunteered to face them himself, truth be told.

Alistair felt that edge of battle readiness that he hadn't experienced in a long time. It made him feel far older than he actually was, like a grizzled veteran brought back into the fray. This kind of incursion was exactly the sort of thing they'd done over and over again during the blight and at the time he'd been the only one in their party to fight with a shield. He was always in the vanguard, taking the brunt of the damage, forcing them forward. Since his crowning he'd been pushed somewhere to the middle, surrounded by men with shields and pikes, forced to think of his own life and its supposed preciousness above and beyond his goals. And truthfully, while he would never miss being one of only two Grey Wardens in a country contending with a Blight and a civil war, he had long ago admitted to himself that he felt the front lines in any battle were where he belonged.

It was a line of thinking that had gotten Cailan killed. But Cailan had never been a warrior – he'd just worn the armor. He was well trained in courtly fighting, tournaments and exhibitions to impress the nobles and keep fit. But he was never intended to be a general, never intended to truly fight for his life or the life of others. That was what Logain was for. Because Maric had fought for his country, Cailan hadn't needed to – not physically anyway. And while they shared a father, Alistair had come to learn through extensive history reading that his humble beginnings had probably hammered him into something far closer to the man his father had become than Cailan's pampered existence could have.

Fighting for his life and the life of others was exactly what Alistair did. And he was good at it, he knew. He didn't have many points of pride or areas where he admitted his own prowess, but he knew his martial skills were exceptional. And now, he'd finally have another reason for them to count. He'd once again make it matter because he was going in there and he was going to find Hawke, and he was going to bring her back. That was simply what was going to happen – there was no chance of any other outcome. And if this is how he met his end, it would be a good end if she lived. Eamon would birth a litter of kittens to hear him say that. And that thought brought a private little grin to his face.

Reaching the tailor shop, Varric popped the lock on the door with barely a pause and navigated them deeper into the shop and to the door to the basement. It was very quiet and a casual look would lead anyone to believe that there was nothing of importance at all happening below the shop. Varric inspected the lock on the door to the basement and had everyone step back a bit so he could disarm a trap that was laid into the locking mechanism. After a few minutes, he grumbled something and barked out "Rivaini – come look at this". After nearly 10 minutes of both Varric and Isabela prodding at the door, they got the trap disabled and the lock open.

Varric made his way through the group of soldiers to his position on point in the back, but paused by Alistair as he went. Keeping his voice very low he murmured "I don't know who these people are, exactly, but that was not your average trap. We're walking into something more serious than just some raiders looking for a payday, King."

Alistair nodded at him "Understood." He clapped Varric on the shoulder and then moved forward, opening the door and heading down the stairs, Isabela at his elbow behind his shield to look for traps as they descended. And there were more traps – at the foot of the stairs, one in the very center of the room, and another near the door to the second room.

"I've never seen this many traps in such a small space." Alistair was nearly afraid to take a step at this point.

"I have – our mutual friend Zevran had that cave set with enough traps to kill an army, every few feet as if he was betting on someone getting complacent about checking for them. Or, he was counting on the first set to take out whoever was coming after him and didn't want to have to reset anything if they sent another group." Varric was poking around through sacks and crates as he talked. Alistair had long ago stopped feeling outraged when his companions dug through things that weren't theirs looking for loot. It was how they outfitted armies during the blight and while he spent the better part of that first month scowling at Solona's sticky fingers, he eventually learned to just ignore it. His noble intentions didn't armor men or buy them food.

"That certainly sounds like Zevran. And the traps here are complex, you said?"

"Yep – that one on the door was a doozy – very professionally done."

"Hmmm – so this might be some sort of nest of assassins we're walking in to is what you're telling me." Alistair wasn't too pleased with the idea – a whole group of people who fought like Hawke or Zevran or Leilianna wouldn't be impossible to overcome, but he'd lose men and he didn't want that to happen.

Varric shrugged and chuckled "Search me, Kingy. I don't make assumptions about whatever new depth of trouble Hawke has gotten herself into. There could be assassins, dragons, or just a very exclusive Orlesian brothel down here for all I know. I've learned to just expect anything."

"Right – well, let's hope it's not Orlesians then. I can deal with anything but that."

Varric snickered again.

Noodle was with them and had been sniffing furiously at the door for several minutes, clearly eager to move on. Whether he scented his human or his prey was unclear to Alistair, but he was happy to have the warhound along.

….

Hawke was plucking at the ropes, having succeeded in loosening her right wrist enough to at least turn it in the binding without ripping off any more flesh. Her wrists had been oozing blood and pus for days now, clearly infected, and she was sure she'd been feeling the draining effects of that infection as she felt chilled in a cold sweat. She'd begun turning them more often to keep them from sticking to the ropes but it had only caused more damage. If she could get the gag out of her mouth and conjure up enough saliva she might be able to wet it down and slide her wrist out. But without a sure way out the door, she'd have to wait for that. If they came back and found that she'd gotten even partially free they'd bind her up again in some way to ensure she couldn't escape. Or worse, they'd just start taking off parts. You could survive and talk without hands and feet, after all. And she was sure more and more every day that the eventual high bidder for her would be the Templars.

So she waited. Eventually the Punching Man returned, smirking, wearing a new dandy vest of emerald silk with detailed embroidery of vines twisting across the lapels. He preened like a peacock and she wondered if he actually got dressed up to come and see her – if this was part of his show or if he were trying to… Maker help her, look nice for her.

"Hello my pet, and how are you today, hmmm? I fear very soon you will no longer be mine. While it was indeed the goal of this entire venture, I must admit that I will be sad to see you go. I enjoy our chats."

Hawke simply blinked up at him. In truth, she was quickly coming to the point where she just wanted whatever the next thing was to happen. If she was going to be shipped off to the Templars, fine – Templars it is. If it was going to be Minrathous – fine, Magisters and Blood Magic it is. It hardly mattered to her at this point. She had no sense of time here and she could have been gone for weeks or months at this point. She couldn't remember the last time she'd had anything to eat and most cups of water came with sleeping draughts mixed in so she had been avoiding those as well. She was beyond feeling hungry and beyond feeling tired, despite being completely unsure of when she had last slept. The pain in her shoulder had long since become just another part of her existence along with every other ache, every other bruise.

But the Punching Man was talking still.

"…. Caught a glimpse of your handsome king yesterday in the square. And he is very handsome, you know. I hear there are advantages to being a Grey Warden. Especially for the women who become their paramours, yes?" The Punching man pulled a somewhat abused letter from his vest pocket and waved it at her, ensuring that she saw her name written at the top. They'd taken it from her footlocker.

Alistair… he was here. He was here in Rivain and this man, this man who had been holding her he knew about it. She had to get out to warn him. No more biding her time until they moved her. No more tamping down that pool of rage that had been inside her since Kirkwall. She would get out, she would kill them all, she would get to Alistair before they did.

"You chose well. I wonder – was it the title alone or the title and the shortened lifespan that attracted you? In a few years you would be the sole ruler of Ferelden if you had no children. That is not so long to wait for such a level of power, hmm?"

Hawke honestly had no idea what he was talking about and through her haze of just being done with it all she had forgotten to stay blank.

"Hmmm… that look you give me makes me think that you must be confused. Your boy-king, Alistair. He is a Grey Warden. They do not live so long. They try not to make a habit of telling people that, of course, but you see – I am not your average person. There are many things I know about Wardens since the blight. For instance – their lifespan. Estimates vary of course, but I warrant your lovelorn little king will be dead before you get into your silver hair, my pet."

Hawke's expression transformed into one of annoyance – with herself. She wasn't going to give this man ammunition. File it away for later, Hawke. Don't think about it now.

The Punching Man had crouched down in front of her again, hands hanging loosely.

"Ah, I see he did not tell you." He reached out a hand and brushed it across her hair. It was a gesture of affection, a tender gesture. And it nearly made her stomach flip over.

"You tremble, dear, do you realize that? I wonder – is it in fear? Is it in rage?" He smiled at that and it was a real smile, not the smug sneers he'd shot her nearly constantly since he first saw her, "I much prefer the idea of you enraged at me, trembling with your desire to do me harm." He put special and clearly lascivious inflection into the word "tremble". His fingers continued to make little trails across her forehead, the line of her jaw, the slope of her nose. "Yours is not a face I would ever wish to see afraid. It would be a great… disappointment."

Hawke tried hard not to pull her head away from his touches. He was suddenly acting like a different person, as if some part of his façade had moved away from him. He wasn't veering between emotions suddenly. He was being… honest.

"I told you once before that I did not understand the allure of Ferelden women. I think that I have come to understand that a bit more. Though I think it would be more fair to say that I've come to understand the allure of… certain… Ferelden women. Perhaps it is simply in your family's blood, yes?"

He'd continued to stroke her face, fingertips just barely moving along the skin under her eyes and along her brow and it was soothing – it was actually soothing. Hawke hadn't been touched in anything but anger for months, since… well, since Fenris tended to her wounds the night of the assassination attempt. That was… so long ago. And now he was soothing her with his gentle voice and his calloused but gentle fingertips and it was nice – so nice to be touched. She had to fight to keep her eyes from closing at the movement, or worse, leaning into it. Hawke tensed at the realization. If he was soothing her now it was surely only to ensure that the pain was worse later. He was playing at two sides of his role as captor. Benevolent and gentle tempered with severe and punishing. He noticed the way her muscles bunched and he sighed, dropping his hand from her face.

"I suppose I have earned that mistrust, my pet. I would think you foolish otherwise and whatever I may think of you – and I will admit to thinking a great many things - foolish does not enter into it."

He stood, and leaned back against the table, arms crossed in the pose of calm and control. "You know, I find myself wondering if you would have made-" he stopped abruptly, turning his head at some sound – it wasn't something Hawke made out. He sat still, head tilted, eyes distant, and then was suddenly in motion, moving out to the hall and shooting rapid fire orders in Rivaini to whoever was there. He'd left the door open completely and Hawke immediately began straining forward, choking off her own air, with the rope still bound around her neck and tethered to the hook in the wall behind her. She tried to push forward with her body and reach back with her fingers at the same time to pluck the gag out of her mouth but was just shy of her goal. She leaned back, coughing, and caught her breath. As she was trying again, three of the regulars came into the room, yelling at each other and gesturing at her. They still left the door open.

…..

Alistair and the rest of the group moved through the door and into a hallway with doors along either side. Alistair made hand motions at his guard, telling them to break up and search down each side, room by room. As they began picking their way through each of the side passages, they found that the first several were simply filled with cloth or sundries, buttons, dress molds, and other trade items. Further down, however, a man popped out of a room just as Alistair was coming up to the door. He had an astonished look on his face which made Alistair hesitate in attacking him. Unfortunately the man was just collecting his wits and he ducked back into the room and tried to slam the door shut while screaming something in Rivaini at the top of his lungs. Isabela swore colorfully as Alistair wedged himself into the space and pushed the door wide. There were four men in the room, all arming themselves and Alistair immediately fell on the nearest one, bashing him in the face with his shield before striking out with his sword, running him through.

Noodle had followed them in, ripping out throats with glee and Isabela made quick work of the remaining men just as his guards in the hall were calling out and there was an obvious battle starting.

"He was yelling to someone a floor down or in another room – they know we're here now." Isabela spat out over her shoulder as she ran into the hall, falling on the nearest man who had made it past the guards.

….

The Punching Man came back into the room, closing the door behind him. The three men stopped shouting at each other and went into action at his quiet command to them.

One man knelt in front of her and took the gag out of her mouth, pulling his hands away like she was sure to bite him – and she might have if given the chance. He grabbed her by the hair on the back of her head and roughly pulled her head back. Another man came forward and jammed a vial between her teeth. She felt the liquid filling her mouth and quickly tried to clamp off her throat to keep what was surely a sleeping draught in her mouth only and not swallow it. She closed her mouth and made a show of pretending to swallow when her head was released. Thankfully the Punching Man was not paying close attention. Something told her that he would see the deception. He stood near the door, peering through a slight crack. She let her head sag forward on the rope, hoping her clamped throat and the pressure on her neck from the rope would keep the draught from going down as she slowly and carefully let it dribble down her chin, unnoticed by the men standing around waiting for it to take effect.

There were more shouts from the hallway and people running back and forth. She heard fighting – someone was fighting. She pretended to doze, happy to play along. If someone was fighting there might be chaos enough for her to escape. She'd managed to get most of the sleeping draught out of her mouth and only a little went down her throat – she might be a bit hazy, but she wouldn't be completely catatonic like she should be.

She watched from the corner of her eye as the Punching Man threw open the door and stepped out, men running past him as he barked a few orders and then produced daggers housed in sheaths that had looked like just another part of his shirt's design. Even having seen it herself it was hard to picture where they'd come from. He stepped forward for just a moment and then backed up again to where he had been, with nothing obviously different about him except for the blood now dripping from his weapons. He looked back into the room, looking at her directly and their eyes met. She wasn't sure what to call the expression on his face but it was something like regret. Though regret over what – she was in no position to even guess. Then he moved forward, out of her view.

….

Varric let out volleys of crossbow bolts and Alistair's guards wisely took up a position further from the front of the fray as Fenris swept his broadsword around, neatly cleaving through three men in a single pass. Noodle was fighting at Fenris's side, the only one of them naturally low enough to avoid his wide arcs with ease. The immediate fight was over quickly, but several new groups of men were clamoring through a trap door in the floor and joining their already fallen friends in the hall. It was a ridiculous move to come up a ladder into a battle that was already in progress – a mistake that the guards took full advantage of, slicing down men as their heads appeared.

These were clearly not trained fighters, but there seemed to be an endless supply of them. For every one they took down, another two seemed to appear. Finally the flow seemed to abate and the guards quickly made their way down the short ladder to secure the immediate area as Alistair and Hawke's companions followed, making a clear spot at the bottom for Noodle to jump down.

They found themselves in another basement area, this one definitely older and made of rough-hewn stone instead of the wood clad walls of the hallway above them. It ran on for at least twice the length of the already sprawling basement above them.

"Smuggler's tunnel" Isabela noted, "this probably lets out eventually near a cove. You can smell the salt."

Alistair thought that maybe she could smell the salt. He couldn't smell anything at all except for a slightly dank, humid quality to the air and the blood splattered across his chestpiece. Several doors opened and new waves of men came out – all clad in the same simple peasant garments that could be found anywhere in Rivain. There was nothing about them that stood out at all and the vast majority of them seemed to be using daggers and blades that were borrowed. There were a few skilled fighters in their midst, however, and they proved difficult to take down.

While they were fighting, slamming his shield left and right, slashing down through flimsy cloths and into the unprotected flesh below, nearly lost in battle haze, Alistair saw a man emerge from a side door. He stood out immediately because of his clothing, which was very finely tailored and looked to be made of expensive fabrics. He produced daggers from seemingly nowhere and effortlessly dispatched two of Alistair's guards before he could get to them, deftly sliding daggers between bits of armor as if he'd practiced against this suit of armor specifically for years. He surveyed the fighting as more men poured out of rooms and then turned back and looked into the room from which he had emerged, calmly looking back at something that was there. He then turned and yelled out directions to some of the men before virtually disappearing. He'd been there one moment when Alistair had moved his eyes away to bring the bottom edge of his shield down on a man's throat, and then was simply gone – not even a hint of him moving away or down the hall.

…..

Hawke lolled her head on the rope and was rewarded for her quick thinking in playing like she was drugged when one of the men pulled out a dagger and began cutting her wrists and neck away from the wall. They did not untie her wrists or her knees and ankles, but she was definitely free of the wall itself as they hauled her up between them and began dragging her out of the room. She continued to hang limply, peeking out at her surroundings as she was taken down a hall, feet dragging behind her. There were people embroiled in battle behind her, further up the hall. She heard shouts and steel clashing, and screams of pain. Without the opportunity to turn her head and look, she couldn't see who was fighting and at the moment it hardly mattered. Pins and needles coursed up and down her legs as the blood began to work its way back into places long choked off by her time tied down. The pain in her shoulder from being hauled up was excruciating but she fought to stay limp.

They rounded a corner into another room and as they went in, the open doorway was completely covered by another piece of wall behind them, the sound of hammers ringing out. This was a hidden room and they'd just sealed her in it. But there was a dagger in here in the dark on one of these men and that was all the promise she needed.

…

Two more of his men went down to lucky blows and Fenris had taken a nasty cut to the side of his face from one of the more skilled rogues. Alistair called out to have them back into a room where they could more easily funnel any attackers into a narrow space. The room they moved into was expansive, filled with crates on one side and rows of bunks on the other. Judging from the number of beds in this room – and assuming there were other rooms just like it down the long corridor – there were accommodations for a shocking number of people.

Who were these people? Alistair had seen all sorts of clandestine operations in his time but something about all of this seemed off. Most of the men they were fighting seemed utterly disposable. Street gangs in Denerim had higher caliber men at their disposal. The few skilled fighters they'd encountered were more in line with what he had expected and were certainly armored and outfitted to befit their skills. At another lull in the fighting – a lull because Alistair knew better than to assume they'd run out of willing peons who would throw themselves on their blades to slow down their progress – Alistair sent men into the hall to pull back the wounded.

Those who had been taken down by the well-dressed assassin were dead. The other two would live and several of the guardsmen began working on their wounds, applying poultices and providing healing draughts.

"So what do you think? Do we keep up an assault down the whole length of the hall or should we break up again and search the rooms?" Alistair wasn't knew what he wanted to do, but he was open to suggestions from Hawke's companions.

"Well, they know we're here, so stealth is out of the question. But fighting all bunched up in the hall with a wall of shield bearers in front of me is frustrating to say the least." Varric was thinking over their options as he spoke and paced. "Would you be willing to set your men as a back guard and let the four of us and Noodle do the searching from this point forward? We have a lot of experience with this kind of fighting between Darktown and the caves on the coast."

Isabela helpfully chimed in "And don't forget the warehouses." She was wiping blood from Fenris's face and examining the slash there, despite his protests and his constant attempts to pull away from her.

"I wouldn't be opposed to the idea. I think bunching up in the hallways is a sure way to get more men killed. Did you… did you see that assassin who stepped out of the side room?"

Varric shook his head but Isabela had seen him "He moved like death. Extremely impressive. If he's still here, he's going to make a lovely fight."

Alistair gave directions to his men to hold this position, spread out and guard their backs to keep anyone from coming down to the basement after them. A small group would also search through the rooms they'd already passed and ensure that they were empty while Alistair and Hawke's companions continued to search through the passage room by room.

….

Before any of the men in the room with Hawke could fumble for a lantern, she brought both fists up into the face of the man on her right and repeated the action with the face on her left. They both fell wailing, clutching at their broken noses. The movement had hurt far more than Hawke had anticipated, however, and she found herself lurching blindly, hoping to bump into a wall or the not-really-a-door – anything to keep herself upright now that she had no support and only numb, bound legs to keep her up. A match struck in the dark and a lamp came to life. The man with the dagger was advancing on her. She fell to her back just as he reached her and pulled her knees back to her chest. He, foolishly, took this as a position of submission and kept advancing. When he was close enough, Hawke shot out her feet, hitting him square in the groin, causing him to drop his dagger, which she scrambled for.

These men were not fighters. They weren't built for it and they certainly weren't trained. These were random hirelings and she had to wonder how much they actually knew about who she was if they'd underestimated her so badly. Maybe the Punching Man had kept most of them in the dark. It would make sense, would keep them from trying to make deals of her own and sell her out from under him. Right now, that was her only advantage. They assumed she was a desperate woman getting in some lucky shots and nothing more.

Getting the dagger in one hand she was able to saw at her ankle and knee ropes, freeing her legs before any of the men had recovered and attempted to come after her again. She turned the dagger to try to get at her wrist ropes but she didn't have enough time before one of those with a broken nose was up, swinging at her. She'd been distracted and took the hit hard to the side of her head, falling heavily to the ground, thankfully on her right shoulder and not her injured left shoulder. She didn't lose her grip on the dagger however and as the man advanced on her position, she brought it up, slamming it into his knee and twisting it as hard as she could before yanking it back out and slashing blindly up his thigh, hoping to hit that major artery. She was rewarded with a spray of blood in her face and the screaming man falling to his side to try to staunch the blood flow.

The one who had been hit in the groin was back up and Hawke got to her feet, getting the table that was in the room between the two of them. After a moment of circling and nothing else brilliant coming to mind, Hawke launched the dagger at him. It wasn't as clean a hit as she would have liked, but it was still embedded far enough into his eye socket that he would be dead soon. The last man in the room, however, had gotten behind her in the meantime and tackled her to the ground, leaning heavily on her wounded shoulder and digging his knees into her ribs. She let out a guttural howl at the pain and began to work at bucking the man off of her, to no avail. She fought and tried to move but the pain caused blackness to swim up whenever she moved anything other than her legs and her position didn't allow her enough leverage to push him off, even if she'd had the strength to do so. She was captured again. So she stilled, gave up. She was prepared to die here, pushed to the filthy ground, broken, some pathetic random man besting her. Then he made a mistake. He rolled her over and moved off of her to one side. At first, she thought he was going to hit her, knock her out, take advantage of the moment and finish her off, anything. But instead he roughly grabbed at one of her breasts through her shirt and kneaded it against her chest. And she was suddenly full of rage again. She was broken and bloodied and exhausted and filthy and he was doing this? Now? She wasn't even sport at this point and this pathetic creature was enjoying it. She waited until he leaned further over her, his breath ragged from more than just exertion and tried to drive one of her knees up into his stomach, but the hit had no strength behind it.

Realizing she wasn't as subdued as he'd thought, he grabbed for her hands, still bound together and pushed them hard into her stomach. She scrambled around with her legs, turning herself so that her knees were between them, kicking at him and hoping anything connected. With one wild flail she got lucky as he bent over her and jammed her heel into his eye, causing him to let go momentarily and clutch at his face. She moved around quickly and got to her knees, throwing herself at him and driving him to his back, laid out across him. It was enough to leave him disoriented and she was able to bring her bound fists down on his face several times before moving up his body and pinning his throat down with her knee. She continued to pound him in the side of the face, pushing down as hard as she could on his throat, his legs kicking wildly, one hand coming up to grab at her shirt, punching at her chest and sides and face. It seemed to take forever and some of his hits were connecting rather well given the circumstances, but eventually he fell limp.

She was sure he wasn't dead, though. Hawke dragged herself over, mostly on her stomach, using her legs to push, toward the man with the dagger in his face. She got a grip on it and pulled it free. She moved up to her knees and brought the dagger across his throat to ensure he was dead and then went through the difficult process of getting back up on her feet and moved around the room, slitting the throats of the other two men in turn. Panting, every breath an agony of pain up her sides and in her lungs, she stumbled and sat down in the room's single chair. She didn't trust herself to be able to get back up off the floor again. Once she could breathe again, she twisted the dagger in her hands and sawed at the bindings on her wrists.

It was time to take stock.

She was injured very badly at this point, with cracked ribs, a dislocated shoulder, and probably several ripped tendons as well. Nearly every inch of her body had been battered with fists and belts and she was one big bruise. She had sometimes said that "everything hurt" and this time she realized how ridiculous that statement had been. This now – this is what it felt like when everything hurt. But she was still angry, angry enough that even this pain was not going to stop her from getting out of here.

…..

Setting out, Noodle took the lead, snuffling along the floor as he went. After several doors that lead to empty rooms, they came upon a small room that held a table that was splattered with blood, several hooks driven into walls with ragged pieces of rope hanging from them. Bloodstains marred the floors and the walls here and there and in one corner where the confining hooks and ragged ropes hung it was clear that someone had been kept there from the pattern of blood on either side of a relatively clean spot as well as a foul smelling bucket that had obviously been used as a chamber pot. Noodle in particular was clearly interested and sniffed at the corner of the room, rumbling out growls and whines low in his chest. Hawke had been here.

The amount of blood, the variety of colors that denoted the number of injuries and the span of time over which they were sustained stoked a fire in Alistair's chest. Suddenly feeling far more driven, Alistair pushed them out of the room, slamming open doors and rousting hiding men from their places, cutting down those who tried to bolt away. Isabela lept forward on one of the men, snarling at him and twisting her dagger into his shoulder. It wasn't a fatal wound, but it would hurt a lot. She was questioning him in a steady stream of Rivaini and he was shuddering and answering back haltingly. After a few moments of questions and answers, none of which seemed to please Isabela, she brought her other dagger across his throat, pulling the embedded dagger from his shoulder and staring down at him, scowling, as he spilled blood across the floor, splattering her boots.

"That was Alphonse . He said a man paid him for information and that they were keeping her to sell her off to Templars. Apparently a bidding war started. He called the man "Il Primeri" but didn't know anything more about it. That would be our assassin, I wager." She sounded angry, and weary. Apparently she had feelings other than snarkiness and lust after all, as hard as she worked to hide them.

"We have to move on – she's here." Fenris was watching Noodle pace in front of the door, whining and growling as if he were muttering to himself. The warhound was clearly impatient for the rest of his pack to get going.

They made their way through several more rooms, some of them branching together with interior doors, making sure that every man who crossed their path died at their feet. It seemed simple enough until, emerging from a side room back into the main hall, they realized that the far end of the tunnel was filled with the noise of running feet. The reinforcements had arrived. The group braced themselves for the ensuing fight, Noodle's hackles rising and Fenris emitting a soft glow – Alistair wasn't sure if he'd ever get used to that. These men were not the rabble of random hirelings. They were well armored and trained.

Alistair fell back on defensive training that had been driven into his very bones. Parrying, shield bashing, jumping back and twisting and keeping the worst of the fight off of Isabela and Varric. While Fenris had no shield, his reach more than made up for it. Alistair shot through a sudden gap in the crowd and pushed the men toward Fenris and Isabela, Varric shooting into a side room and using the cover of the door for protection as he filled men with bolts. Noodle was at Alistair's side, driving the warriors toward Fenris with his gnashing jaws. Those who didn't move paid for it, taking the Mabari's massive bulk in the chest and losing significant pieces of their throats and faces in the process. Xerxes had been just as ferocious when protecting Solana, but Noodle had at least 50 pounds on him if not more and the expanse of his jaws was impossibly wide at full extension. It was difficult to imagine Hawke being taken in the first place with Noodle by her side.

Isabela had taken a nasty hit to her leg, a dagger still protruding from the wound, bone deep as she scurried back into the room Varric was shooting from, leaving just Alistair and Fenris directly in the fight. Fenris was quickly reaching the point of exhaustion, Alistair could see the way he was pushing through it, but he wouldn't last long. They needed to end this fight so he could breathe. Alistair redoubled his efforts, using his shield as a secondary weapon far more than he was using it for its intended purpose, and was making headway through the 8 or 9 between him and Fenris when he heard Varric yell "Clear out!" Alistair moved back instinctively and saw Fenris do the same just as the air between them became thick with a rain of bolts, coming out in an arc from Varric's crossbow and severely incapacitated the majority of the men left fighting.

Fenris and Alistair recovered quickly, dispatching the last of them with Noodle.

….

Hawke could hear the fighting down the hall, it was getting closer. This wasn't some internal squabble gone awry – this was an invasion force. Good. They wouldn't hear her trying to get out.

She hauled herself back up to her feet, which took a disturbing amount of time and two false starts where she fell limply back into the chair. She picked up the lamp that had been lit and made her way over to the wall where the door had been before it was sealed. She could see the nail points poking through on this side of the wall. Six of them, hastily hammered into place. From the outside this probably looked like a solid wall. She experimentally wiggled the nail but it wouldn't be a simple matter of just pushing them out. Flipping the dagger around, she began hammering back out the nails, feeling a rush of satisfaction when one point was finally flush with the wood and she could push against the panel and see a bit of light seep through the crack. It had taken far too long to do, however, and every hit sent reverberations through her broken bones and rattled her head. The progress she'd made though caused her to push on. It didn't matter that it would take a long time – it was movement. It was something. She had to keep trying.

Swaying on her feet and pushing her knee against the wall for some kind of balance, Hawke reached above her head to bring down the blunt end of the dagger on the topmost nail. She brought it down once, twice, and the third time the dagger end slipped off the nail, the momentum she'd brought to bear driving the point of the nail into her hand until it touched wood. She screamed and her hand dropped the dagger involuntarily. Berating herself for making such a stupid mistake and damaging herself more, she cast around the room looking for anything she could use to work the nails out. Testing the panel again, she got it to move out a few inches, but not nearly enough. She didn't have the energy to batter against it.

Hawke paced weakly around the room a few times. Unless she pulled apart a table – also unlikely in her current state – she had nothing else to work with in the room and she couldn't risk skewering herself on a nail again. She took the lantern back with her to the chair and slumped back into it, thinking through her options. There were none. She was stuck in a room with corpses, a fight raging on outside with no idea who was doing the fighting. Hawke knew that, even if she could raise her voice enough to be heard, there was every chance that whoever was out there was just going to run her through the moment they got the panel open. With a ragged scream of frustration, she picked up the lantern and flung it at the panel. It shattered against the wood, spilling firey oil down the surface, which caught and burned rather quickly. It wasn't what she'd intended but, Maker, she would take it.

….

They regrouped again in a side room, Alistair looking over the wound Isabela had.

"I think it's stuck in your bone. If I pull it out, there's no guarantee I can get the bleeding to stop."

Isabela grit her teeth "Bleeding I can deal with – pull it out."

Alistair looked at her with sympathy as he wrapped his hand around the hilt, bracing the other hand against her leg. "This is going to hurt." Isabela nodded that she was ready. "On three – One-" And Alistair yanked out the blade, dropping it and raising his hand to shield himself from the ineffective smacks coming at his face from Isabela.

"You're a bastard," she groused.

"That's Royal Bastard to you, my lady," Alistiar smirked at her while he dug through the back Fenris had slung down, looking for a poultice and some bandages.

As he was finishing tying up the bandage, Varric called from the hall "Alistair? You two should come here."

Alistiar helped Isabela to her feet and shouldered the pack. In the hall, Noodle was scratching furiously at the floor in front of an expanse of wood that had been painted to look like stone. The illusion was very well done – at a quick glance it wouldn't have been noticeable. It was only the Mabari that had drawn their attention at first, but the panel of wood was smoking – it was on fire from the inside.

…..

As the wood began to smoke, Hawke realized that she was in yet another room with no vents or windows. She moved to the far side of the room and used the dagger to cut away a portion of her shirt, filthy and splattered with blood though it was, which she tied around her face. She would have to wait until the wood had burned enough to break through it. She thought he might be able to use the chair, if she could lift it, to break through – but she wasn't sure. As the smoke burned her lungs and caused her to cough, sending waves of pain through her sides, she wasn't so sure this was a good way to do anything but die in an anonymous room.

Through the roar of the flames she could hear voices on the other side of the panel. She pulled herself up and tried to drag the chair over to the door, preparing herself to pick it up and hurl it through the wood. Hopefully it would take whoever was on the other side by surprise and give her a chance to make it through them. She took what she could count as a deep breath and began to drag the chair along the ground with her good arm, pathetically slow – she knew she'd never be able to lift the thing but she had to try. She took a few steps toward the wall of flames when she heard a familiar voice say her name and it stopped her.

That had to be a hallucination.

But there it was again, Varric saying "Hawke".

She didn't dare respond. It was the smoke and the exhaustion. Maybe she'd lost more blood than she thought from that nail.

"Hawke, if you're in there, move into a corner or something. We're coming in."

Whoever it was they were coming in. She moved to the wall next to the panel, picking up the dagger as she did. She'd wait for them to come into the room, make a quick check of who they were, and then try to make a break for it. She couldn't hold the dagger still in her hand and it was jumping wildly in the air, all semblance of control gone. The adrenaline that had gotten her through the day was now raging through her, battling with exhaustion and the pain she felt with every movement, every breath. Anyone could have slapped at her hand and disarmed her at this point. Her eyes were burning and streaming and her lungs couldn't hold air, she was panting and lightheaded, only the sureness of a solid wall behind her back keeping her upright at this point and that was quickly losing the ability as she slid further down the wall.

Suddenly the panel was shaking, coming apart in pieces as a broadsword came down through the flames, followed by a man with a shield who ran through the ruined halves of the panel, blasting them apart as he moved into the room, causing her to yelp in surprise. A silver-haired man moved in behind him followed by a dwarf. They all peered around the room for a moment, taking in the dead men on the floor before spotting her, looks of horror on their faces, but she was already falling forward, all the fight gone, the dagger falling uselessly from her hand as she fell into blackness.

….

Varric was the first to speak "Hawke?"

No response from the other side of the wall.

"Hawke?" – he paused again and they all waited, holding their breath. But it was no good, anything that was happening in there either wasn't making noise or there was no one in there to make any noise.

"Hawke, if you're in there, move into a corner or something. We're coming in."

Varric nodded at Fenris and Noodle moved back out of the way. Fenris brought his sword down through the panel and cleaved it in half. It wasn't nearly as thick as they thought it would be. Pulling the blade back, he worked it through the wood at an angle several more times before Alistair tapped his shoulder. Fenris moved out of the way and Alistair ran at the panel, shield raised, to break through and skidded to a stop in the center of the room, feet slipping on something viscous on the floor.

The only light in the room came from the remains of the burning wood panel and what little light spilled in from the torches ranged along the hall. Alistair took stock of what was in the room – blood, three bodies, a table, a chair, as Fenris and Varric entered behind him, he turned to the corner in his blind spot and saw her there.

Her arm jerked wildly, clutching a dagger, held before her in a weak defensive stance. Her eyes were wide, catching the feeble light and her teeth bared in a feral rictus. She didn't look scared, she looked half wild, unhinged. There was no recognition in her eyes as she stared at them. She was in trousers and a shirt, hanging pitifully from her frame, torn and bloodied. She was covered in filth and blood head to bare toe. Her left arm hung limp at her side as she panted and her eyes darted between the three of them. Her face was completely obscured by dirt, her teeth and her eyes the only things that clearly stood out in the dim light of the room.

As he tried to make sense of what he was seeing, her eyes rolled up in her head and she began to slump forward. His shield clattered to the ground as he lept to catch her, barely able to skid under her as she fell, keeping her head from impacting the ground. He moved her around so that he could cradle her shoulders and knees, standing with her against his chest and taking her out into the hall where he could see her more clearly. Noodle danced around his feet in circles, overjoyed that his mistress was there and alive and he could see her. Alistair kneeled again, keeping Hawke's upper body pressed to his chest and letting her legs rest on the ground.

As he began peeling her hair back to assess her injuries he felt nearly overwhelmed by warring emotions. Relief – she was here, in his arms, breathing. Anger – what he'd thought was dirt was bruising, her face puffy and nearly purple in places, one eye swollen badly, split lips, her nose was misaligned and probably broken. Peeling back one shoulder of her shirt he saw that the arm that had been hanging was obviously dislocated and had probably been dislocated for a long time – it was certainly not a recent injury. He wanted to go back through the place and kill all these men again for what they'd done to her. He wanted to do it slowly, torturously. He found himself nearly unable to breath for all the rage he felt, eventually unable to look for additional injuries and just cradling her to his chest, rocking her.

With his lips to her hair, eyes screwed shut, he spoke to her quietly even though he was sure she was beyond listening. "You're safe. I've got you. We'll take care of you. No one is going to hurt you again, I won't let them."

Fenris, Varric, and Isabela had circled behind him and were waiting. None of them were eager to interrupt him, but they needed to get her out of there. Varric spoke up first, as usual.

"Uhm… Your Majesty – she needs a healer and we need to get out of here before any more reinforcements show up."

"You're right. Varric – can you run down to the guard and tell them to make sure the way is clear?"

Varric moved past them immediately without another word. Isabela came to Alistair's side and put a hand on his shoulder "I know a healer who owes me – we'll take her there." Alistair nodded and slowly, as gently as possible, scooped Hawke back up against his chest as he stood, only taking his eyes off her intermittently to ensure he didn't stumble as he headed back down the hall. He had an irrational thought that if he stopped looking at her for just a moment she'd disappear, evaporate in his arms and leave him searching for her again. He kept having to remind himself that he had her, she was here, she would heal. It was a mantra in his head as they moved back up the tunnel. She's here. She's alive. She will heal. She's in my arms. She's not going anywhere. She will wake up. She will smile. She will laugh. I can tell her how much I love her. We have time. She isn't lost to me.

They made their way back up to the tailor shop, a group of guards providing a vanguard, falling in around the king and his cargo. For once he was thankful for their protectiveness – he had no intention of doing anything but holding on to Hawke for as long as possible.


	34. Chapter 34

Hawke was aware of a sense of constriction first. It felt like her entire upper body was swaddled and confined, but in something smooth, lacking the bite of ropes or the heaviness of metal. And there was pressure around her right hand. Light bled in through her closed eyelids but they still felt heavy, gummy, like she was drugged. Then, slowly, she realized that nothing hurt. Nothing. There was no pain at all anywhere in her body while she lay still. And that hadn't happened in so long that she put off the idea of trying to figure out where she was in favor of just enjoying it. If she were in another predicament it would wait for her to savor this feeling, it would still be lurking there when she opened her eyes. Minutes passed while she just breathed and lay still and let her mind catch up.

She remembered killing the men in the room. She remembered hammering at the nails and taking damage to her hand – she realized that didn't hurt either. Then the lamp and the fire and later – people. People came into the room. The memory of who they were was hazy but her assumption was that it was a group of the Punching Man's subordinates – men who were there to recapture her. And then there was just… nothing. So she was probably laying somewhere in the rooms of whoever she'd been sold off to. And they'd been kind enough to either heal her or to numb her with painkillers to a point where being still didn't ache and throb. So probably not Templars. She didn't think of them as having much mercy in them in general and they certainly wouldn't have mercy for someone that was actively wanted by the Divine.

Realizing that she should just get it over with, that her own curiosity wouldn't let her keep still for much longer, she experimentally moved a few muscles, flexing her toes and her calves and clenching her hands. That's when she realized that the pressure in her right hand was actually someone else's hand. And it clenched back on hers. She went still again, feeling her heart begin to thump a little faster and the adrenaline begin to kick in. Someone has been sitting here holding her hand. It was the Punching Man. She was sure of it. Her fingers twitched, jumping with her pulse and… fear. Pure fear. She'd never been afraid of anything quite like this before.

She heard a body shift, feet move on a floor, and the hand holders hers twisted slightly.

"Marian?" it was whispered, as if they were asking after her but afraid of getting an answer at the same time. And… it wasn't him. It wasn't the Punching Man. She knew that voice though, even through the fog in her mind. Knowing it would hurt to do so, Hawke slowly tried to open her eyes. Light stabbed down into them and she slammed them shut again, wincing as her eyes began to water.

"Oh, Maker, I'm sorry… hold on" the voice said, and her hand was released and there was the sound of feet moving away. She still had the thought that she should get away, use this time when this man wasn't holding on to her to move, to flee, get a weapon, at least get some distance. Through her eyelids, she could see that the light had receded and she tried to move but only managed to shift her head, twist her torso slightly before the hand was back in hers. "Those tunnels they had you in weren't exactly well lit and you've been asleep for three days now." She knew this voice, or was sure that she should know it. As she tried to open her eyes she also tried to ask a question.

Her eyelids fluttering, she croaked out "Where am I?" and she finally managed to keep her protesting lids open long enough to see the face attached to the hand holding hers. "Alistair? Why are you…? Where am I?"

It was him… Alistair. Looking down at her with a shocked expression, a look both hopeful and scared at once. He looked haggard – several days at least of stubble on his face forming a scruffy beard, dark rings under red-rimmed eyes. But as her own shock showed on her face he smiled that broad warm smile of his, that expression that tapped into some pure and clean and… hopeful in him that was impossible to resist and so unique to him. She was sure that, were a demon to wear his face to tempt her they'd never get it right. He was really here. He was here and holding her hand and nothing hurt. She was having problems putting thoughts together at the moment and something in her decided that he was the reason she wasn't in pain anymore. As if his presence had made it go away.

"You're at a healer. We're still in Rivain." Alistair paused, clutching at her hand and bringing it up to his lips, placing little kisses all along her fingertips as he spoke. She felt herself nearly gasp at the contact. Alistair… HER Alistair. "Take a minute to see how you feel and then you should really eat."

Hawke nodded her head and tried to sit up, obeying him like a child would, dumbfounded. Sitting up didn't exactly work, but as she used her one unbound arm to try to push, the blanket fell forward and she got a good look at herself. She was mostly naked under the sheets – just a rather pristine set of smalls that had bunched up around her thighs - but it hardly mattered. Her whole upper body, from armpits down was swaddled in tightly wrapped bandages. Her left shoulder was also bound tightly to her body and her left arm was strapped down as well, preventing her from moving it at all.

"Here, let me help." Alistair stood and, holding one hand against the back of her neck, holding her up, rearranged a few pillows behind her and then helped her slide backward until she was leaning against them. He had to practically lift her on his own, an arm around her shoulders, another under her knees, she was so weak. "I thought the amount of bandaging was a little excessive but the old witch just smacked at me and yelled at me to leave when I said so. Hopefully we can get you out of part of that cocoon today. I was thinking I should… "

Hawke reached out as soon as Alistair moved away, suddenly desperate not to be alone, not to let him out of her sight, sure he would disappear again, that this was some sort of cruel dream. Thankfully he noticed the movement and he immediately stopped and went back to her side, sitting carefully on the edge of the bed and pulling her hand into his lap, interlacing his fingers with hers. She looked around the room, blinking, holding on to his hand tightly, desperately. The amount of light still felt excessive, but her eyes were adjusting. She stretched a little, moving muscles. She could feel a twinge along her ribs still, but if felt more like tenderness and pulled muscles than the intense pain of broken ribs that had been there before. Flexing her shoulder gave her a similar feeling – everything had been put to right, her body just needed more time to mend itself. Alistair was staring at her with that same look, looking just like she felt, like she'd disappear if he blinked.

"Is there water?" Her whole mouth and throat felt like dry paper.

"Yes!" Alistair jumped up, nearly twitchy with eagerness. He poured a cup of water from a nearby pitcher and held it out to her. She took it from him and stared down into it as he settled on the side of the bed again.

Alistair watched her for a moment "What's wrong?" he said eventually, a look of concern on his face.

Hawke looked up at him, struggling to voice her suspicion. "Where did the water come from?"

Alistair looked a little confused "uh… from a pump. Is there something wrong with it?"

"Did you see them pump it?"

Still confused, he answered honestly "Ah, no, I didn't. The healer brought it with her just a little while ago."

Hawke handed the cup back to him "I'll wait then."

Alistair took the cup, shaking his head. "Hawke, you need water and you'll need food. You haven't eaten since you've been here and… I don't think they gave you much to eat while they were holding you. Do you… "He swallowed. "Do you remember much of what happened?"

Hawke took a deep breath – marveling again to herself over the lack of pain in such an action. "I remember enough. That's why I can't drink that." She was sure of herself on this point. It would be a long time before she trusted something as simple as a cup of water again without being sure of the source. Realizing that she had a whole new roster of paranoias to sit with her already considerable issues was not reassuring. Maybe this would fade with time. Maybe it would fade when she was gone from Rivain.

Alistair seemed to be considering what she said. He didn't ask why, ask her to explain. He just took a moment. "Would you trust it if Varric or Fenris prepared water and food for you?"

Hawke snapped her head up at that "They're here?"

Alistair grinned at her "I uh… I came to Kirkwall to see you. Found you not there, of course. I was just preparing to leave when the note from Isabela came and we all travelled together. Would you like to see them? I can ask them in and then get you some water and something to eat."

"Yes, I… if they're here, yes. But can you… " Hawke reached out again for his hand and brought it up to her face, closing her eyes and pressing her cheek against the back of his hand. His hand was perfectly calloused and warm and so neatly enveloped hers. She barely eked out a whisper with the question "Will you come back?"

She'd gone just a few minutes before from being scared of who this person might be to being petrified of the possibility of him leaving her again. She was sure her own will would reassert itself, the sureness she'd felt on the ship of all the ways she needed to stay away from him for his own safety. But just now… just now she needed him to be close to her in a way she wasn't sure she'd ever felt. She'd always been okay on her own, always just fine in solitude. She was strong beyond measure but just now it felt like that part of her was gone, burned away through… she clenched her eyes tighter… she wouldn't think about it.

For his part, Alistair, felt much the same. She hadn't yet seemed to notice that he couldn't stop touching her so he had not yet crossed a line but he was well aware of the possibility of it happening. He'd never been a solitary person, never adept at being left alone and yet he'd spent much of his childhood in solitude – often as punishment. Because if there was one thing the Chantry knew how to do, it was find the thing that hurt you the most and use it against you. But her company was not just company. It was Hawke. Marian. HIS Marian. Alive and talking and brushing her sweet cheek across the back of his hand with her eyes clenched tight and her eyebrows furrowed in a way that made him want to make sure she never ever had a reason to have that look on her face again.

Alistair put down the cup and brought both hands up to her face, gently running his thumbs along her cheekbones "Of course, Marian. Of course I'll come back." He leaned in and kissed her forehead.

Hawke felt the first sting of tears come to her eyes. She felt so grateful for him being there. She didn't understand yet how or why, but he was there, and he was just so… him. Careful and caring and thoughtful and honest. Her hand rose up and laid against his face, palm cupping his jaw

"I realize it's been a few days since I've had a proper bath, Hawke, but I didn't think I'd make your eyes water." Alistair was grinning at her, wiping away the few tears that had spilled over, ignoring the ones that burgeoned on the ridges of his own. He kissed her again on the forehead, lingering and breathing against her hair, lank and long unwashed and the very least of his concerns, for a moment before pulling back.

"I nearly forgot – there's someone else far more eager to see you. I'll send them in so you'll have company before I can round up food and your friends."

Hawke gave him a small smile and he beamed back at her as he stood and picked up the pitcher and cup before he turned to the door. As soon as it opened, Noodle bounded in, barking and snuffling, licking Hawke's face and hand and anything else he could get to. Alistair closed the door on the sounds of Hawke's tear-choked laughter and the hound's happy barking.

He made his way through the small cottage to the kitchen where the pump was, feeling invigorated. Isabela was there by one of the windows talking to the healer whose house they were still currently taking up space in. While he didn't really want to think of her as a witch, it was hard to think of her as anything else. She was small, bent with age, grizzled, and had a cackling cadence to her voice that made it nearly impossible not to picture her snatching children from their beds in the night. Isabela saw him come in and made her excuses to the healer, making her way over to him. The healer had made short work of the wound Isabela has suffered to her leg and she'd been back to the full power of her usual swaying saunter within a day of their arrival, though Alistair suspected that part of it was sheer force of will and that the ache was still there.

Alistair was pouring out the water and vigorously scrubbing the pitcher and the cup as Isabela walked up. "So the king does dishes as well. Ferelden is a funny country."

Alistair smirked at her "When I was a Templar recruit I was on kitchen duty most of the time. I've done more dishes than all the people in this house combined, believe me." He continued to scrub for a minute "She's awake. Noodle is with her – do you know where Varric and Fenris are?"

Isabela shrugged "They haven't been back today. They probably got drunk and will wander in here hungover at some point this afternoon. They were taking rooms at an inn I know. The healer isn't pleased with our extended stay, by the way… If Hawke is able to be moved we should probably get her a room as well, or move her to the ship."

Alistair expected that, and frankly he'd be happy to be out of the woman's house. He'd always be grateful for her help, but her hospitality was not what he'd think of … hospitable.

"We'll have to talk about arrangements. I think staying in the city for a little while longer in case she needs anything would be wise – but not at an inn. It's just too exposed."

Isabela nodded thoughtfully "Thought you might say that. I may have an alternative."

Alistair waited for the rest but obviously that was all Isabela was willing to divulge at this point. Fine. "Well you should go in there and see her. She's up for now but after she eats I'm sure she'll sleep more. I'd also like to see if we can unwrap her some today, so I'll need your help with your … friend… on that point." He leaned in further and whispered then "I think she hates anything I suggest just on principle."

Isabela snickered and whispered back "I suspect it's the fact that you're male."

"Pffft – that's a dirty rumor. Wait… no… that one's true." Alistair dried the pitcher with a piece of sack cloth "But seriously – go on and see her, I'm sure she'd be happy for the visit. She doesn't want to be alone right now and Noodle is great, but a lousy conversationalist."

Isabela looked down "I'm not sure she'd want to see me. I … I wouldn't know what to say."

Alistair sighed, putting down the pitcher. "Look – You haven't said so, but I'm pretty sure you've been blaming yourself for all of this. And that's just… well, it's ridiculous, Isabela. It isn't your fault. The fact that the two of you managed as long as you did without any trouble from the Templars is amazing. This was one man working with who knows how many others and they were actually quite smart about it. It isn't your fault."

"It was my ship, Alistair. My crewman who did this directly under my nose. I'm captain – what happens on my ship is always my responsibility."

"I understand that. But Hawke has been a part of your crew for several months and – beyond that you've been friends for much longer. She needs some familiarity right now. And if you need to blame yourself for all of this – just… do it later."

Isabela snorted "That's your big answer? "Do it later"? No "talk it out"? No "confess your sins and tell her you're sorry and throw yourself on her mercy"? "

Alistair shrugged at her, smirking "I like pragmatic answers these days. If you want a beating for what you imagine you did, I don't think Hawke is in any position to give it to you. You don't have to atone for anything. But you DO have to go talk to her. If she knew you were here and avoiding her how do you think she'd feel?"

Isabela huffed "Fine. I'll go. Is she still… all… you know." She waved her hands vaguely toward her own face. Even after a very careful washing of her face the damage she hadn't painted a very pretty picture. Mangled nose, fractured cheek bone, so much swelling around her left eye it was hard to picture that there was an eye there at all.

Alistair shook his head and whispered to Isabela "As much as I dislike the old witch she's a great healer. Everything looks well on the mend. Still bruised – bones likely still knitting back together on their own, but nothing like she was.

"Don't think that I'm going to go in there and get all melancholy and weepy, alright? I'm mad at myself but she's a big girl, she's dealt with worse."

"I wouldn't think anything of the sort, Isabela. I know you're a tough pirate woman not to be trifled with."

Isabela narrowed her eyes at him as if she couldn't decide if he was playing with her or not and then finally set off for the room Hawke was in. It had been impossible to get her to step foot in there during the last three days. She was too filled with guilt to even look at Hawke, but he knew she was getting information on her progress from the healer.

Alistair prepared a thin rice porridge for Hawke, using water he pumped himself to fill the pot and the pitcher that he would bring in to her and letting neither of them out of his sight. It didn't surprise him that they'd obviously drugged her food, but it helped explain why she was so dehydrated. And thin. Alistair hated to even think about how much weight she'd lost since he last saw her in Kirkwall. The tendons and muscles in her arms stood out and while helping the healer wrap her in bandages, her ribs were too stark, the hollows of her collarbones too deep, her shoulder blades too sharp. It made her seem frail and thinking of Hawke as frail didn't so much engage his protective instincts as it did completely terrify him. That was one woman who absolutely could not afford to be weak. Not now. Maybe not ever. Had she been weak when she'd been taken…. He'd seen the state she was in when they found her, still fighting, still trying desperately to survive. She wouldn't have had that will if she was already weak. Anger was the only thing that was holding her upright at the end when they'd burst through that burning wall. Anger alone would never have been enough.

Alistair had spent the last three days hovering in her room like a ghost. He dozed here and there in the chair the healer had only begrudgingly provided for him when it became clear he wasn't leaving the room, but most of the time he just thought and waited and sometimes prayed. He'd never been a pious soul – in what some might consider an ironic twist, his time in the care of the Chantry had only weakened his connection to the Maker. But since the Blight he found himself at times praying even if he couldn't give voice to just who or what he was praying to. He prayed to be a good king, to be a good ruler, to be fair with people and to never forget his own beginnings. He prayed for clarity and honesty. In the early days of his rule he prayed often for Solona, worried that the destruction of the Old God didn't just destroy her body but her soul as well. And what would that mean? There were no answers for questions like that. Not in the Grey Wardens – not anywhere. An arch-demon died, she died with it, and that was enough for most people. The Grey Wardens called it a good death and that was just… enough for them. It would never ben enough for Alistair.

As he watched Hawke's steady breathing night and day, he prayed for her. When her brows furrowed in her sleep, when her breath changed, when she let out a half-formed sound of distress, he prayed for her peace of mind and for her to know she was safe now. He prayed for her to heal, to be whole, in body and mind. Eventually, as her wounds began to knit and the bruising began to fade from the angry reds and purples, he prayed that he was good enough and strong enough for her while she recovered and beyond that. He could minister to the sick and the broken, he'd been there stitching wounds and applying bandages often enough in his life – but what if she no longer needed him once she was better? As elated as he was to see her awake and talking and moving, he was also petrified by the thought that they would find themselves back at the impasse they were in before where they never quite met at the right time. Her distrust of the world at large had once again proved itself to be well founded – Did one cross-country rescue attempt balance out all that fear, all that jaded wariness that she'd accumulated over a lifetime? There were some hurts you just didn't come back from, some events that just left you less than the person you could have been. She was happy to see him now, clearly agitated at the thought of him leaving… but how long would that last?

The old witch eyed him warily as he stirred the porridge, as if she was waiting for him to do something heinous that she could yell at him for. He pointedly ignored her and continued his work. Doing something always made him feel better and Hawke needed time to talk to Isabela. He felt both exhausted and oddly alert at the same time. He knew he'd been deprived of far too much sleep lately and that it would catch up to him soon. But for the moment, he could do something other than wait and he was determined that he would stay on his feet until Hawke was resting again. The room she was in was tiny, the bed barely large enough for her alone. Several times over the last few days he had wished that she were in a larger bed, something big enough that he could squeeze into it as well without jostling her, so that he could lay beside her and feel her breath, assure himself with the warmth of her skin.

Isabela came back into the kitchen just as Alistair was pouring the porridge into a bowl and digging around for a spoon. Looking up, Alistair realized that her eyes were red – she'd obviously been crying.

"Just shut up. I will kill you where you stand if you say even a word." She sniffed inelegantly.

Alistair raised his hands in surrender and said nothing. He even managed to wait until Isabela had stalked away from him before smirking. Isabela exchanged a few words with the healer and then headed toward the door.

"Going out to find Fenris and Varric. She asked for them and for you. Go feed her." She called this out over her shoulder as she left.

Alistair gathered the water, the cup, and the porridge together and headed back into the room, the healer coming in immediately after him. Hawke was still sitting up in the bed, with Noodle taking up the vast majority of the lower half, head shoved into Hawke's lap. She was smiling down absently at the mabari's bulk, making lazy circles between his ears with her fingertips, Noodle's deep sighs signaling his intense contentment. The healer immediately began rambling in Rivaini at them and pushed at the dog to indicate her displeasure at having him on the bed.

"I really wouldn't do that if I were you." Alistair warned as he settled the food and drink on the tiny side table.

Noodle growled, low in his chest when the healer, heedless of Alistair's warning, pushed again. Hawke raised a hand, waving the woman off and then leaned over to murmur something into Noodle's ear. The hulking beast huffed at her and stood, making a great show of stretching before stepping off the bed and sitting next to Alistair. The healer still eyed the dog warily, but set about unwrapping some of Hawke's bandages. "I see his wounds weren't too grievous. I tried not to think about him too much I … thought he might…" As she stumbled over the thought she didn't want to express, Alistair broke in –

"He was fine. He had some broken bones, some deep cuts, but he was mended. He'll need another look once we're closer to someone who knows more about Mabari, but he's been doing well as far as I can tell." Noodle wuffed his agreement, making Hawke smile at him again.

As the healer worked at the wrappings, beginning to uncover parts of Hawke's upper body, Alistair realized that nudity was about to imminent and popped up from his chair to dig through a pack that Isabela had brought from the ship the day before with some of Hawke's personal items. He found smalls, a long shift, a short shift, and a pair of loose trousers that looked they would only stay up on Hawke's frame with some creative knot tying. He held up the shifts for her to choose. "The long one please."

The healer unwrapped Hawke's arm from its cocoon against her body and began undoing the wraps around her ribs. Alistair suddenly felt ridiculously bashful and turned toward the corner of the room, back to the proceedings. He'd been there when she was wrapped up in the first place, afterall. But it was different now. First of all, the bandaging around her torso had already been partially done – he wasn't seeing anything he hadn't already seen in Kirkwall. But it was especially different because she was Hawke again – not someone injured who needed caring for. Awake and unbroken, he couldn't just stand there and oogle her. Some part of him screamed "Sure you can! Of course you can!" but he tried to ignore it and the rising tide of blush creeping up his neck.

It seemed to go on forever, with shuffling and shifting and grunts of… approval? Disapproval? - impossible to tell really – coming from the healer. Occasionally Hawke sucked air through her teeth about whatever the healer was doing, making it clear that she was healed, but not nearly completely. Eventually Hawke spoke out "Okay, Mr. Bashful – you can turn around now", the smirk on her face evident in her voice. And that just made him blush harder. As he turned around, the old witch was making her way out of the room, grumbling under her breath. Hawke was sitting up in bed, the tie on the top of the shift had been loosened so that it went under he left arm instead of having her arm go through it to keep from having to move the shoulder and Alistair caught himself staring at that expanse of uncovered neck and upper chest. She was experimentally bending and twisting her upper body.

"It feels pretty wonderful."

As Alistair sat back down and tested the temperature of the porridge he looked up at her, brows furrowed "What does?"

"Lack of pain," she grinned at him, all teeth and sparkle that invited you to grin along.

Alistair felt his chest tighten. He'd known that feeling before – known that bliss of just being freed from terrible pain. And he'd seen that grin on her face before – the thing she did when she wanted whoever she was talking to think she was at ease. And it would be so very easy to believe it too. She sold it well. Maybe she did it for herself as much as she did it for anyone else. But knowing that she was putting on that front for him was both incredibly sweet and frustrating at the same time. He couldn't take her to task for it just now though, so he smiled back. He realized that smiling back was easy – pretending to believe her was easy. And maybe that was for her benefit after all.

"Well, I've made you some ridiculously bland porridge and you have fresh water – untampered with."

He handed her the bowl and she moved around a little to get it situated in her lap, stirring it to cool it some. She took the cup of water from him as well "Just sips, not too much," he cautioned, though he was sure she already knew that her stomach wouldn't handle a huge dose of liquid all at once. They sat in silence for some time while she ate little bites of the porridge, taking her time and stirring it in between mouthfuls. Alistair was scratching at Noodle's head, lost in his thoughts when Hawke brought him back out.

"How many did you kill?"

It took a moment for him to realize what she was asking "Oh, well that's a little difficult to say. A lot. Maybe… 30? 40?"

"Did you happen to see a well-dressed man with daggers? Not quite as tall as you, slight build, light brown hair, dark eyes, looked like a very dandy noble?" Her tone was light, but her eyes were fixed on the bowl in her lap and Alistair knew better to assume that this was just a casual question.

"We saw him. Isabela and I both saw him."

"Did you kill him?"

"No, he was there one moment and gone the next. He killed two of my guards and then just vanished."

Hawke nodded and took another bite. "Good." She said eventually.

Alistair quirked an eyebrow at her. "Good?"

She looked up at him then "Yes. I want to kill him myself." She said it so matter-of-factly, so serenely, that it took him off guard. She went back to scooping up porridge and Alistair sat back further in his chair, unsure of what to say.

Hawke began again "How long was I gone exactly? And why are you here? And why are Varric and Fenris here? Do you have any idea who they…." Hawke laughed suddenly, shaking her head with a rueful expression. "Maybe it would be easier if I just asked you to start at the beginning and tell me what happened from your perspective and then I'll reciprocate, hmm?" She set the porridge aside and reached for the cup again, settling herself back against the pillows.

Alistair smiled at her. "You're sure you don't want to sleep? I'm sure the old witch has some ideas about what you should be doing with yourself."

Hawke made a sound somewhere between a laugh and a snort, her voice still coarse in her throat "I'm sure she does. When she gives up the act and tells me those things herself in a language I understand I'll consider listening to them."

Alistair laughed "So I'm not just paranoid – you think she's faking it too."

"As far as I can tell she's understood every word of common said in front of her so far. Or she's pretending to while pretending not to for some reason. Which makes no sense at all, but well, Rivain." Hawke shrugged, as if "Rivain" was all the explanation that was required. From his brief stay in the country so far he agreed with her.

"Well alright then, story time." He moved over to the bedside again, scooting further up when she reached out for his hand and taking it in his while he leaned over her legs, hand on the other side of them on the mattress. He was as close to her as he could be without actually being on top of her and he desperately wished again that the bed was bigger.

He told her everything he could remember, but tried to stick to the most pertinent details. He skipped telling her about the time in Denerim, driving himself and his advisors mad with questions about Kirkwall and started with his trip to Kirkwall, leaving out the part about his intentions. He told her about the waiting and making a nuisance of himself at the Hanged Man. He recounted to her the false leads, the slavers they were able to take out, the children they found having been put into Chantry orphanages despite the location of their parents being known (since their parents had likely sold them to the slavers in the first place). He told her about the battle through the tunnels under the tailor shop and how they'd found her. Getting through that part was more difficult than he had thought it would be and he found himself unable to meet her eyes, staring down at her hand, fingers laced with his.

"So that's about it really," Alistair breathed out heavily, "I carried you here at Isabela's instructions. I have five guards in the area, all dressed like locals, hanging about the place just in case. The wounded are back on the ship as are the other guards but I'm sure they've spent most of their time doing whatever it is guardsmen do in strange cities away from their wives and kids."

"So I was down there for… what? Nearly four weeks?"

"Does it not seem that long?" Alistair finally risked a glance at her face.

Hawke had her brows furrowed "No, I … maybe?" She laughed weakly "It's hard to say. There weren't any windows and I think I was drugged a good portion of the time until I stopped drinking the water." She was frowning down into her cup. "I tried to come up with some kind of system for judging time based on meals but it seemed to be fairly random. They gave me something to eat whenever they felt like it or remembered. Almost certainly on purpose to keep me weak."

There was a knock at the door just before it creaked open. Alistair normally would have bounded away from the bed, feeling like he'd been caught. It occurred to him for a split second before he dismissed it and squeezed her fingers instead.

Varric poked his head around the edge of the door "Is she up?"

Hawke simply looked surprised. Alistair had said that they were here but she seemed suddenly to not actually have expected to see Varric.

Alistair nodded at them and Varric and Fenris both shuffled in. Varric was beaming at Hawke "You scared the crap out of both of us, Hawke. It's good to see you not looking like something that got dragged behind a cart."

Hawke smirked at him, the standard fake joviality firmly back in place in front of him "You always know just what to say, Varric."

"That's why the ladies love me!"

"So… you came here looking for me. That's… unexpected."

Varric let out a heavy sigh, "I was hoping you'd let that go but… I shouldn't have. Isabela has already blistered my ass for me. And before you ask – no, I didn't provide the Templars a picture of you. It looks like my own little sanctum probably isn't as secure as it should be and someone snagged it while I wasn't there. The fact that Edwina and Nora didn't tell me about it means they probably got paid off."

Hawke just stared at him, blank faced. Varric reacted to her stoicism like anyone else would react to someone screaming at them, wincing and holding up his hands. "Broody set me straight, Hawke. If… if you're good, I'm good."

Hawke nodded, still looking rather dour, but she didn't press, changing the subject instead. "You two came on the ship with Alistair and his men – have you been sleeping there?"

"Nah – it felt too much like imposing. We took a couple rooms at an inn not too far from here. The people in this city can't play Diamondback to save their lives – well, we didn't play for lives, really, but they certainly can't play to save their coin."

"And I'm sure it had nothing to do with you cheating wildly." She let a small smile creep onto her face then.

"You wound me, Hawke. Such accusations."

Fenris kept his eyes on the floor while they talked, shifting from foot to foot slightly.

"Fenris?" Hawke tilted her head down, trying to get a look at his eyes and failing. Fenris only nodded in reply.

Hawke turned to Alistair "Could you and Varric excuse us for a minute? I think I'd like to talk to Fenris alone."

Alistair nodded at her. "Of course." As he rose, he leaned across and kissed her on the forehead again. "If you need me I'll be just out in the other room."

Hawke smiled up at him "Don't let Varric talk you into a card game. It's never a good idea."

Varric managed to look scandalized again as he left the room, followed by Alistair.

"Will you sit down, Fenris? Tell me what's wrong."

Fenris sighed and sat. He still wouldn't look up at her. He didn't begin speaking immediately and Hawke knew better than to push. After a few minutes of furious eyebrow furrowing and scowling, Fenris finally began haltingly.

"I saw where they kept you and… how you looked when we found you. I … shouldn't have let you leave Kirkwall alone."

Hawke sighed. She had a feeling that this would be what was upsetting him and she knew that there would be no way to talk him out of this except repetition and time. "Fenris, please look at me."

He slowly raised his eyes to look at her. He almost immediately flinched. She looked better – it would have been difficult to look worse – but the mottled broken blood vessels, the intense bruising, and then in the middle of it all her intense eyes, green and brown and golden-flecked. Her left eye, the one that hadn't been visible at all the last time he'd seen her had a corona of dark red swooping through the white. Hawke reached across for one of his hands and took it between both of hers. "I'm sorry that you had to see any of that. I'm sorry that I was caught in the first place, but…I don't relish the thought of anyone seeing me like that."

"They held you like a slave, Hawke. They beat you like a slave." His voice was nearly a whisper, an urgent hiss. "They probably did other things as well. I just… as much as I have wanted others to understand why… why I am the way I am… I never ever wanted you to experience something like that."

Hawke nodded "I know. I think I do understand some things better, though."

"Hawke, of all the people I've known you're the one person who never needed to understand better."

Hawke didn't know what to say to that. So instead she pulled on his arms to get him to move to the bed, leaning in to him and wrapping her unbound arm around him. He wrapped an arm around her as well and they rested their chins on each other's shoulders.

"I'm here, Fenris. I'm alive and I'm going to be okay. I… I didn't expect anyone to come for me." Her voice started to choke as tears she wasn't expecting sprang forth. "It never occurred to me that anyone would come for me at all. Knowing that you three came just to find me… I can't explain what that means to me."

Fenris squeezed her tighter, "You're my family, Hawke. I will never leave you behind."

They sat like that for a long time, Hawke crying softly into Fenris's shoulder.

Eventually Hawke pulled back and wiped at her face, looking vaguely embarrassed. "Thank you, Fenris."

He nodded, pushing a piece of her hair behind her ear. "You're welcome, Marian." They clasped hands again and she sniffled, trying to compose herself when she noticed the ribbon. Plucking at it lightly, she shot Fenris a questioning look.

He smiled, looking a little embarrassed. "It seemed appropriate. A… a favor."

Hawke's lips curved mischievously. "That would make you my knight, Fenris."

He simply smiled back at her. "I suppose it would, Hawke."

Her smile widened. "Ser Fenris, Champion of the Champion. I like it."

…..

Alistair expected Hawke to sleep again at any moment during the day but she didn't. She didn't seem as energetic as what was normal for her, but she certainly wasn't dropping off as he'd expected. By the time evening rolled around, Alistair himself was exhausted, despite taking a nap in a chair in the front room while both Varric and Fenris took turns sitting with her. Isabela was out all day resupplying her ship and no doubt interrogating her crew until they were cowering in fear.

His nap had just served to make him more tired, it seemed. After Varric shuffled out of her room and bid him goodnight, Alistair poked his head in to the room to find Fenris asleep in the chair and Noodle back in his position on the bed, head and front paws pushed as far into Hawke's lap as he could get them. Instead of finding her asleep, Hawke was sitting up, affectionately rubbing the lines between Noodle's eyes. She looked up when the door opened and smiled softly at him.

Alistair walked toward Fenris and put out a hand to nudge him when Hawke shot out a hand, shaking her head vehemently. She gestured for Alistair to step back.

Very quietly, Hawke said "Fenris, you're drooling all over yourself. Go back to your room at the inn."

Fenris's eyes slowly opened and focused on Hawke before he sat upright quickly and darted his eyes around the room before relaxing again. Yawning and scratching at the top of his head, he put a hand out to her, which she took and squeezed, and then he clapped Alistair on the shoulder and wordlessly made his way out of the house.

Closing the door behind him, Alistair quirked an eyebrow at Hawke. "I take it he's one of those "I'll cut your throat before I realize I'm awake" people if you touch him, hmm?"

Hawke nodded "I've made the mistake. It would be a shame for Ferelden to lose its king to a sleepy elf."

Alistair took the chair Fenris had been in and scooted it closer to the bed, as close as he could get it while leaving room to actually sit. Leaning forward, with his elbows on his knees, he took Hawke's hand and ran his thumb over her knuckles.

"Why haven't you slept?"

Hawke grinned at him "I didn't realize I was supposed to be sleeping. I just slept for 3 days from what you told me." And it was such a smooth answer that Alistair at first didn't have a response. But he could see the exhaustion in her eyes, see it in the slump of her shoulders. Her eyes stayed closed just a little too long each time she blinked.

"That kind of sleep it's really sleep at all, Hawke. You shouldn't fight it right now if you need rest."

Hawke shrugged at him, trying to sound nonchalant and failing miserably. "I just don't feel like it."

So now he could safely add fear of sleep to fear of adulterates in her food and water and intense fear of being alone to the new and depressing list of things that Hawke had picked up from her captivity. He didn't want to press her for details and risk upsetting her. But he also knew that no one else would do it either.

"So, I told you why I was here – how we came up from Kirkwall. You said you'd reciprocate with what you knew. Since you don't want to sleep – maybe we could talk?" Alistair tried to sound light, as if he were asking her for a nice chat about her favorite food. But he knew that the longer horrific things sat stewing in your own mind, the harder they clung over time. He, for instance, still had nightmares about the broodmother they'd encountered in the Deep Roads. He'd never spoken to anyone about it, not even Solona. It always felt like the wrong time to bring up something that horrendous and by the time he realized that there would never be a right time, they were far along in the process of readying a Landsmeet and all that came with it.

Hawke took a deep breath "I did say that, didn't I?" She was looking down at her lap, at her hand in his, at Noodle curled up on top of her legs… anything but him, really. As she began to speak her voice betrayed just a hint of shakiness. "Well, I was taken by surprise in the city. Some kind of sleep bomb and 6 or 7 men in a tight alley way and I was simply overwhelmed. When I woke up, I was tied to a table in a dark room without my boots."

Alistair found himself tracing the marks on her wrists from the ropes. Isabela told him that the healer said that the scars would likely always be there. The wounds had been terribly infected when they found her – it was a surprise that the remnants weren't worse, really. Those rope burns were deep, seeping blood and oozing pus, the smell, the greenish hue of the skin around the wounds, the red lines that snaked up her arm toward her heart… it was horrible how they'd kept her.

"And, well" she sighed, looking up at him "How much of this do you really want to hear, Alistair?"

Without hesitation Alistair answered, "As much as you're willing to tell me."

Hawke nodded, but her forehead was still creased and her eyes downcast as she continued. "Well it all sort of runs together, but I can tell you in the simplest way possible. There was a man – the man I described before… the one who was well dressed. He did most of the talking. In between beatings from random men, sometimes in groups, sometimes alone, he would come in and talk to me. I … I assume he was trying to break me somehow. He'd sometimes hit me, sometimes talk, and eventually he began just to talk to me. Most of the time he kept me gagged, like I was his captive audience, even when he asked me questions."

"What did he ask you about?"

Hawke made a noise like an angry bark that he supposed was a laugh "Everything. About Ferelden, about my status, about Kirkwall and the irresponsibility of leaving, about… my family. Bethanny especially – asking me how it felt to know I killed her." Hawke was staring off into the middle distance, eyes blank, remembering.

Alistair's teeth clenched, but he kept his hands gentle on hers, fingers making slow circles on her skin.

"Then he… I don't know… it's like something changed again. And while he talked to me he would do these almost… gentle things. He'd touch my hands or run his hand over my hair. I was sure it was probably another tactic – get me to want to be comforted so that he could get under my skin. But I… I'm not sure if that's it or not."

Her brows were furrowed as she spoke, still puzzling it all out. "He asked about you as well. He… " She stopped and looked at him. "He told me about Wardens."

Alistair sucked in a breath but let it out slowly. "What about the Wardens did he tell you?"

Hawke looked at him, tears in her eyes. "You don't live long."

Alistair nodded "I … I thought you would know that already from… from Anders."

Hawke shook her head, her demeanor shifting somewhat as her back straightened and she leaned back more against the pillows, increasing the distance between them without completely dropping his hand. "Anders never told me anything. He said he hated the deep roads and that you never really stop being a Warden. Beyond that he… he kept everything to himself."

"I shouldn't have assumed you would know, Marian." Alistair breathed out heavily again "I'm sorry I didn't tell you sooner, it's just something that's hard to bring up. I nearly forget sometimes myself because it's always felt so far off. And it's… it's different for every Warden."

Hawke was looking back down at her lap "So, how… how long?"

Alistair hated this, hated that there was such a sure and ready answer for her. "I probably have about 25 years or so, give or take." He waited for the angry words, the crying, and the hurt at not knowing. He braced himself for the moment when she realized that he'd screwed up – that he hurt her again when he promised he would protect her.

Hawke's head shot up and she was suddenly laughing, tears in her eyes.

Startled, Alistair stammered out "uhm… that's… not really the reaction I was expecting."

Her hand came up to his face then, looking fervently back and forth into his eyes as the tears rolled over the edges of her own, down into the corners of her mouth. "I thought you were going to say months or a few years… I was expecting the worst, I just… I just assumed that it would … it would be no time at all."

Alistair's arms came around her and he held on to her, closing his eyes. He didn't share her relief, but he understood it. To him, 25 years felt impossibly short. But Hawke probably hadn't expected to live this long – the idea of another 25 years of life probably seemed ridiculously luxurious. And he was more than happy to see her relieved about anything at all. He wasn't going to change that by injecting his own opinion.

Eventually she pulled back. Still grinning, she wiped the tears from her eyes. "I swear I've cried more in the last two months than I have in all the rest of my life. I'm tired of it."

Grinning, Alistair quipped "Well then you should really stop it, don't you think."

Hawke gave him a sarcastic salute "aye, cap'n."

Alistair had been carefully avoiding the topic of Kirkwall and what happened there. It wasn't important right now. Right now, he needed to know that Hawke was okay with the current wave of awfulness. They'd deal with the aftermath of Kirkwall sooner than he really wanted to – which was never. He wanted to keep talking, he really did. But he was feeling the exhaustion pull on him.

"How about I make you a deal, Marian?"

Hawke didn't miss a beat "Depends on the deal," suddenly shrewd.

"I will sit here, in this very chair with you. And I promise not to sleep until you are asleep. And when you wake in the morning I will be here still. If you wake in the middle of the night, I will still be here. And –" Alistair stood and went over to the door, sliding the bolt into place, "The door is locked." He checked the windows and ensured they were completely shuttered tightly "The windows are barred."

"And where is my part of the deal in this?"

"You only have to sleep. It's a pretty fantastic bargain." One corner of his mouth quirked up mischievously. .

Hawke let out a heavy sigh "Fine. Okay. I'll… I'll try."

Alistair nodded "That's all I ask. Well… and for a blanket."

Hawke grinned at him and shooed Noodle off the bed so she could pull off one of the blankets he'd been hoarding. She handed it over to Alistair and he helped her get settled back down in the bed – she was still impossibly weak. Alistair blew out the lamp and settled himself into the chair, but not before turning it so that he was in-line with Hawke in the bed and near enough to touch her easily if she needed anything. He got as comfortable as he could against the hard back of the chair and pulled the blanket up under his chin. He closed his eyes but stayed awake, waiting to sleep until he was sure she was as well. One advantage to his time as a Templar recruit and then the time spent travelling during the blight was that Alistair could sleep pretty much anywhere, no matter how uncomfortable, if his body demanded it. True restful sleep was rare while travelling, but catching naps in full armor leaned against a tree had become so common to him that having a warm blanket and a hard chair and only soft clothes on was luxurious by comparison. His years in the palace should have dimmed that ability, but he'd used it so often in meetings, at events, at ridiculously boring dinners, and often times in his own study while working through labyrinthine contracts that he'd had plenty of practice.

Only a minute of stillness had passed when he felt Hawke's hand at his side, digging under his crossed arms. He lifted them for her as she scooted closer to the side of the bed. Lying on her back, she tucked her hand into the crook of his arm and he settled back down, trapping her hand there against him.

Smiling in the dark, they were both soon asleep.


	35. Chapter 35

When Hawke woke in the morning, all the circulation had gone out of her right arm where it was bent up at the elbow and tucked against Alistair's side. Apparently she hadn't moved at all during the night, which was odd. She was the kind of sleeper who moved over the entire bed, pulling away the sheets and waking twisted in them nearly every day. To sleep so still was… strange. Even when she'd been ill or recovering before she'd still at least turned over in the night. A wave of paranoia washed over her at the thought. Maybe someone had put something in the water of the porridge after all. Maybe it was even Alistair who did it.

She clenched her eyes tight against the thought. That type of thinking was a sure and easy path to a life of looking sideways at everything – even the people she trusted. The first item on her mental list once they got anywhere near an apothecary would be to question them about detection of poisons and potions in food and water. She'd earned this insanity fairly, but it was irrational at best and she couldn't afford to be someone scared of shadows when there were so many other all too real dangers circling her.

Craning her neck without moving anything else, she took a look at Alistair. His chin was resting on his chest and his face was completely smooth and tranquil. She could see a few tiny lines around his eyes and the sides of his face – what her mother had called "smile lines" – a good sign. That is the face of someone who smiles so much that the expression has worn itself into even their most placid expressions. With just a little light seeping in through a gap in the heavy curtains drawn over the window, his hair took on a golden amber color. It made her think of wheat fields, which made her think of the farms in the southern Bannorn. She'd never ached for the place before but just now the want of Ferelden tugged at her desperately.

Alistair though… he was a sight. And waking up to him was dangerous. It felt like there was some sort of precedent being set in this simple circumstance and that she wouldn't be able to wake up again without wishing he was there. The rise and fall of his chest against the back of her hand, the warmth imparted where her skin laid against him, even the simple fact of his presence it was – she didn't have a word for what it was. It was a little overwhelming. This man, this _king_, commanded a ship across oceans, committing himself and the lives of his men on the back of a note from a known liar just on the chance that she needed him.

In her life she'd never encountered a person so very willing and able to come to her aid – even when she cajoled and begged for it. And here he was without even so much as being asked, sitting in a hard backed chair, developing a crick in his neck, replacing rest with sleepless worry over the days before she woke and not even considering leaving her side once she was on the mend.

Her scrutiny – or perhaps some noise she made while her throat clenched and her chest filled with the tears that threatened at her line of though – caused Alistair to stir. His eyes opened and immediately slid toward her and when they caught hers looking right back at him a sweet, wide smile broke across his face. Neither of them spoke, Alistair simply rearranged her hand in his arms so he could stretch and then set to gently massaging it and her lower arm, working the blood back into it as he leaned over in his chair looking thoughtful. Hawke was sure some sort of spell would be broken were she to open her own mouth and frankly, she was content to watch him and enjoy the feel of his fingertips on her palm and her wrist. How he could be so sure of himself, touching her without hesitation or fear like they'd already stumbled across the awkward ground and were settled into something natural surprised her. Not that she'd gotten the impression that Alistair was an indecisive person – just that he seemed more careful than this. And she knew that she certainly was typically more careful.

But Alistair Theirin had managed to insinuate himself into her life and gleefully rearrange what might be considered typical.

They sat that way in silence for long minutes and Hawke found herself nearly falling back asleep with the comfort imparted by his hands and his presence. Unfortunately it wasn't meant to last and a timid little knock at the door caused saw Alistair leaving her side to unbolt the door.

"Aww, I'm disappointed. There was no ravishing at all going on in here." Isabela playfully called out as she entered.

"Sometimes a locked door is just a locked door, Isabela." Hawke croaked from the bed.

"Bah! You say these things just to hurt me, Hawke."

Alistair retook his seat by the side of the bed, utterly un-phased by Isabela's jabs. "Have any news about a place to move?"

"I do indeed. It's very close, has plenty of rooms, and we should be undisturbed for as long as we need… as long as we don't need the place for longer than a week or two."

Alistair quirked a brow at that "Is this actually a friend's house?"

Isabela managed to somehow look affronted without losing the grin on her face "Of course it is! They just may not have strictly given permission to use it, being out of the country and all."

Alistair shook his head "I can't have an international incident here, Isabela. Taking off on my own is one thing, but having the king of Ferelden chucked out of a house for squatting is quite another."

Isabela shook her head "Your lack of faith is astounding, kingy."

"Anyone mind filling in the invalid?" Hawke finally spoke up as she attempted sitting up and failed miserably.

"A change of venues, sweet thing. You just rest, we'll handle the details."

With little hope of putting up a decent protest in her current state, Hawke just grunted and waved a hand vaguely as the two of them set about packing her few belongings in the room, discussing any last minute instructions from the healer, and generally acting as if she wasn't there. She'd been incapacitated before, of course. But she's always still been allowed the illusion of control. People still asked her permission, they still pretended she could actually do for herself and that they were simply being kind. Alistair did not provide any such balm for her ego. He was clearly in charge here as guards were summoned and instructions given, as Isabela helped her sit and don a long cloak with a deep hood, as Alistair lifted her out of the bed, held as easily as a child against his chest. Her physical presence was all that was required and he didn't even stop to wonder if he should perhaps get her opinion.

And Hawke found herself struggling with that. While yes, it was utterly true that she couldn't fend for herself right now and she wasn't even fully alert as they stepped out of the back door of the house and down a back alley, it still would have been nice for someone to pretend that she wasn't. And further, this whole rescuing business it was… nice. Very nice, indeed, being cradled and carried in strong, sure arms that would protect her and care for her. But it chaffed all the same. She hadn't been coddled like this since before she could hold a blade and she'd been doing that since she was five or six years old. She was unaccustomed to care of this kind, to worry without familial bonds and vows, to being helpless and finding that there was indeed someone who would step in when she could not without a thing in return.

Isabela, Varric, Anders… even Fenris – they'd all had mutual need, mutual cooperation for their goals, shared or otherwise. They helped each other. But Alistair – what had Hawke done for him? In her rather narrow view of friendships and how they were forged it had no place and that made it something to be held at arms length and studied.

Something difficult to do when you felt too weak to lift your own arms and the thing you needed to study was warm and smelled slightly of shaving lotion right there in the crook of his neck where your head is cradled.

True to Isabela's word the trip was not far, just a few twisted alleyways that were easily crossed with a minimum of additional wanderers who could track their progress. Hawke saw little of the house itself from the outside beyond the well hidden back door they entered. Once inside, it was clear that this was the home of a rather wealthy person. It wasn't nearly as large as her family's estate in Kirkwall had been, but the scullery alone was nearly twice the size of the bedroom she'd been in at the healer's. As they made their way through the lower floor and up the stairs, they passed by a wide array of sculpture, fine art, handsome furniture made from reddish wood that was found primarily in Nevarra. But the art styles ranged across the whole of Thedas, making Hawke suspect that this was not the home of a rich merchant collector but someone new to their money who gathered pretty things like a magpie.

Alistair finally laid down his burden – one he was rather loathe to part with since it had been the closest he'd ever been to her and for all the speed of the trip, quite the longest – on the edge of a rather fine bed in a room similarly appointed with portraiture and tapestries. Thick woven rugs of myriad colors and intricate patterns covered the wooden floors in a dizzying array of sizes and obvious points of origin. One near the doorway to a small room which Hawke took to be a bathing chamber even bore the Qunari symbol of the House of Tides – probably the home owner's poor joke.

Fenris and Varric bustled through the room like manservants, bringing in a chest as well as her pack, laying out a few extra blankets across the end of the bed, pulling water from the pump in the bathroom, setting a fire. It was strange to see them both so quiet and from the furtive little glances they were both casting here occasionally she knew she must look horrible.

"Is there a mirror?"

All activity in the room stopped momentarily "I… I'm not sure that you really want that just now, Hawke." Alistair was the one who spoke up.

"Well that just makes me even more determined to see, Alistair." She cast the hood fully back from her head and looked up at him, trying to see in his eyes just what must be so awful about her face just now but there was no reaction, no shying away. Either he'd become so used to it or he just didn't care.

Isabela was there already with a mirror in hand when Alistair nodded and turned to find one. Hawke couldn't help but smile. Of all of them, Isabela knew best that her vanity was the last thing that needed protecting. If her face was now hideous, however, getting used to it as quickly as possible was key. Hawke was one of the few people who knew that Isabela's wide golden torque – beyond a status symbol in Rivain – also served to cover ligature marks left there by her husband in a rage. She covered them to keep others at their ease, not herself. Hawke and Isabela had a great deal in common when it came to scars and their attitudes toward them. If they couldn't be used to their advantage, they still were nothing to feel shame over – even the scars that left no marks.

As she took the mirror and turned it toward herself, Alistair began talking a little fretfully. "The healer did what she could for the broken bones, but the bruising will continue to heal on its own. Some things had just been let go too long though. They'll take more time and I'd like to potentially have another healer look at you at some point – a full mage instead of a hedge witch."

Hawke let the worried explanation float away as she examined the damage. Rope burn on her neck, her left eye still swollen and giving her a lopsided appearance, deep bruising of red and purple fading to a horrible yellow green at the edges. And something new – a little bump on her nose. Likely it was the only permanent new feature and that… well that was just fine with Hawke. She turned her head right and left, examined it all thoroughly without comment. When she finished, she looked back up at Alistair and smiled. "I could have done with a bit of color."

He let his lips hitch up into a half smile, not completely convinced of her equanimity. "Yes well that doesn't usually include purple and blue."

She shrugged. "Guess I'm just unusual."

Everyone seemed to breathe again and Fenris announced that a bath was ready. Hawke admonished him for playing servant to her and he waved a hand, dismissing it, though they both knew quite well that it wasn't a small thing for him. When they'd first met, she'd made the mistake of asking him to fetch her something – she'd used the word "fetch" – and he snarled at her and left instead. It had been a week before he'd even speak to her again and several more weeks before he apologized for his reaction. Fenris in those days had always been coiled and ready to strike out with anger at anything that vaguely hinted at an affront. The changes in him were manifold and likely unknown to either of them yet.

Alistiar hustled them all out of the room and helped Hawke to the bathing chamber, setting up a screen much as he had in her own home and pulling a chair up to the other side of it. He kept her company that way while she peeled off her bandages and sank into the water. It took time to clean herself, the warm water working at kinked muscles, the simple stretch of scrubbing at her own hair making her shoulder scream. When she was through the water had taken on the medicinal herbaceous stink of the thick poultices and ointments the hedge witch had slathered her in.

After several false starts of getting out of the tub and getting herself dried off, Alistair took her arm and lead her to the bed, already aired and piled with extra blankets. Once she was in, he stood there looking at a bit of a loss.

"Will you sleep in another room?"

Alistair seemed surprised at the question "I ah… I hadn't actually asked about it."

Hawke nodded thoughtfully and gestured at the bed. "You can stay here… if you like"

And while the question was so casually put there was a carefulness to it that belied how much she truly did want him to stay. The bed in question would easily accommodate them both and it would be a far sight better than the chair he'd been sleeping on for nearly the whole week. But something held him back from agreeing just then. He wanted his presence there to be a request – not just a convenience. He wanted to be wanted because he was Alistair and not just because she was scared to be alone.

"We have a few hours before I need to get any rest – and you need food. I'm going to go now and see about making you something to eat and then I'll be back."

The job she did smothering disappointment with a smile was admirable, and though Alistair saw through it he made his way out and down to the kitchens, feeling her eyes on his back.

…..

He slept in her bed that night after hovering and ensuring she ate enough and checked in with his guards and sent off some correspondence and just barely stopping himself from taking to the kitchen to do the dishes. He didn't stop berating himself internally for being such a weak little moth to her flame until, laying near her on top of the covers in the dark she breathed out a sigh that just barely formed "thank you".

There were worse things than being burned.

…..

As quietly as she could, she got out of the bed and pulled over the pack that she knew still held one of her shirts. They'd been here in this house for days now… time had been a little fuzzy at the beginning but she was fairly sure it was at least five days. She was more than chafing under the bed restriction and her already weakened muscles were beginning to protest and cramp at the forced rest. Alistair was still asleep, curled in on himself on the far side of the bed. She'd finally convinced him to at least use one of the blankets if he wasn't going to actually get into the bed, but he'd seemingly kicked it off in the night. Noodle had made a bed of it on the floor near Alistair's lazily dangling hand.

As she bent to dig through the pack, she felt lightheaded and stood with her eyes closed, swaying on her feet slightly waiting for it to pass. Instead of tempting fate, she sat on the edge of the bed, pulling out her clothes and beginning to get dressed. She pulled on her smalls and her pants and then realized that she was wearing a long shift, which would be ridiculous tucked into the pants. Pulling at the ties along the top, she turned away from Alistair – Just in case he woke up – and worked the shift off. With her still extremely sore left shoulder the whole process was far more ridiculous than she was expecting. After turning in a full circle more than once and with the whole thing still tangled around her head she heard Alistair, nearly choking on his laugher. "Of all the dangers of Rivain I never thought that a shift would be the thing to take you down, Hawke."

Hawke huffed, arms already tired from the unexpectedly difficult process of trying to change her shirt.

"I am going to tell Donal that you sat there and laughed while I was incapacitated." The threat held no weight whatsoever, but tattling had always been an effective deterrent for most of the men in her life, so it was worth a shot.

She heard Alistair's boots moving around the bed. "You seem to think Donal would do something different in my situation?" He still sounded far too amused.

Hawke thought about it while Alistair's hands gently turned her away from him and he pulled the shift off of her head. As her arm came down she peeked at him over her shoulder, smirking. "I'd hope that he would at least wait until I wasn't being swallowed alive by linen to start laughing at me. He'd wait until after."

Alistair handed her her shorter shift, eyes still steadily on the ground where they'd been since she'd been rescued from the first length of fabric. "Nah, he's too much of a tactician. Waiting until you're dressed increases the chances of a sound ear pull for his trouble."

Hawke pulled on her shirt, lifting her left shoulder and getting it through the sleeve carefully, tucking it into the pants and tightening down the laces as she turned toward him. He looked at her directly then, but his eyes were still focused somewhere around her knees. He didn't say anything at first, he just stood there with a quizzical little quirk to his eyebrows. "Is there something wrong with my legs, Alistair?" Hawke didn't bother to look down. That was Isabela's favorite game "something on your shoes!" so she could flick you in the nose when you, like an idiot, looked. And it never stopped being funny to her. The urge to look down was something that was almost unbearably difficult to resist – but resist she did.

"You're wearing shortpants."

"They're not shortpants." Hawke scowled at him.

"Yes they are, they don't go all the way down – they're shortpants." He helpfully pointed at the bottom of the pants where they stopped just below her kneecap. "Actual pants don't stop there."

Hawke rolled her eyes. "I wear these so I don't have to tuck two feet of extra fabric into my boots. These are standard, every day working breeches." She did a little turn in them as if she were modeling them for him, sweeping her hand down her leg in demonstration. "Speaking of boots – did Isabela give you my extra pair?"

Alistair still looked bemused and pointed to the corner where her boots were sitting as he took a seat on the bed. As she pulled on stockings and set to the task of pulling on boots and buckling them in place, he watched. Waking up to her undulating midriff a few feet from him, bare to the room as she struggled with the shift had been both amusing and oddly titillating. He'd already seen far more of her body but there is a stark difference between the body of an unconscious woman with a deathly pallor and more bruises than clear skin and the body of a healthy woman, awake, and moving and… twisting… like that. Even with the weight she'd lost and the too-prominent ribs, the expanse of her belly and her navel was mesmerizing. He didn't even feel embarrassed or ashamed for looking longer than he really should have before he announced that he was awake. It was far too welcome a wake-up experience to allow himself guilt over it.

Watching her now, bent over, light catching in her hair and the expanse of the back of her neck and shoulder that were visible from this angle, he realized again how absolutely beautiful she was. It wasn't that he'd forgotten – on the contrary, thoughts of her mouth and her shoulders and her neck – even the small blue veins of her inner wrist – had often flitted through his mind unbidden in the last year. But her newly burnished skin and the freckles it had raised, the blond highlights in her hair, and the shorter cut that showed off the back of her neck were intriguing in new ways. And those boots – those boots were something as well. Isabela wore boots like that but you hardly noticed them for all the other things that Isabela had on display. But on Hawke, the boots rising above her knee, nearly to mid-thigh accentuated the flare of her hips and the sheer length of her legs in a way that made him wonder if she ever walked around in just a short shift and those boots. Or if he could talk her into it. Or if she'd be willing to get rid of the shift altogether and just wear the boots.

She'd only been conscious in his presence again for less than a full week and most of that had been spent with her sleeping and was already like a giddy little boy around her. He hadn't even had the opportunity to tell her yet the realization he'd come to in Denerim and he wasn't exactly sure when the right moment would be. He'd just have to lean forward a little, stretch out his arm, and he could brush his fingers across the nape of her neck. But Alistair also completely understood anticipation and waiting and knowing that things were right. He had no intention of pushing anything until he was sure that it would even be welcome. After the events in Kirkwall, the time spent apart, her horrible confinement, he wasn't entirely sure that things hadn't changed.

Rummaging through the pack and pulling out a few items, Hawke peered up at him. "So what are your plans?"

"Ah, well, I don't know. Do you mean for today or for the week or… the next 10 years or…?" he trailed off.

Hawke smiled at him indulgently "Let's start with today and work our way up." She was pulling a brush through her hair as she answered.

"Alright. My plans were something like "wake up, eat things, then evaluate from there.""

Hawke pulled out a kerchief from her pack and tied it around her head, laughing lightly "So no plan. That's what I heard."

Alistair shrugged at her "Did you have plans?"

Hawke mimicked his shrug back at him, smirking. "Your no-plan sounds pretty good to me right now. But I also want to find an apothecary to quiz, gather my things from Isabela's ship, and see if there is anything in Rivain I just can't bear to leave without because I have no intention of returning any time soon."

Shoving everything back into her pack and then taking a deep breath – Alistair realized that she looked a little woozy – Hawke squared her shoulders and that seemed to mean a decision had been made.

"So, get ready and grab whatever you might have. I want to get out of this house."

Alistair rose to scrub at his face and neck in the basin while Hawke strapped on her dagger harness across her back. Water still dripping from his chin, Alistair grinned at her in the mirror "So is this how it is around you all the time?"

"Is this how what is?" As she checked the fit of the harness, she realized that she'd had to tighten it slightly more than usual and wondered if she looked as gaunt as she felt.

"You going from asleep to in-charge faster than anyone else can string together thoughts."

She let out a mirthless laugh at that "Well yes, I suppose it is like that. I … I'm sorry if it's off-putting." She looked at him sheepishly from the corner of her eye.

Stepping closer to her, he did what he'd wanted to do since she was out of bed, and put his hand on the nape of her neck, causing her to turn and look at him. "It's not off-putting. It's impressive."

She twisted her mouth at that "It's bossy, and pushy, and if someone were doing it to me I'd have their eyes for it."

Pulling her to his chest and sliding his arms around her, Alistair murmured into her temple, "Well then I guess it's a good thing that I'm not bossy and pushy then."

Hawke seemed to hesitate, arms at her sides, and Alistair wondered if this was too fast. Pulling half away from her to see her face clearly, she looked thoughtful, not upset but he still started to apologize "I… I'm just happy to see you up and around, Marian. I don't mean to be so… familiar... I"

"Stop," she cut him off with a quick shake of her head. Looking up at him, she slid her hand up along his chest and rested it there. "I'm… I'm okay. You don't have to apologize or explain." As if to emphasize the point, she moved closer to him again, sliding her hand around his waist and squeezing him, laying her head on his chest.

A rush of relief poured over Alistair, pushing out the anxiety that he knew he'd been carrying with him, but hadn't realized the full extent of until it was gone. He wrapped both his arms around Hawke and cradled her there against him, feeling the warmth of her through their shirts, feeling her sigh against him in a way that he was sure meant contentment. It was the longest embrace they've had and neither of them seem willing to pull away first.

"You know," Hawke eventually spoke, not moving her head away from his chest "I told Fenris that I didn't expect anyone to come for me. It didn't even occur to me that anyone might. I spent all that time formulating plans for how to escape and I wouldn't have made it out if you hadn't come. I … " She pulled back then, looking up at him "I don't know how to thank you for that."

Alistair left his arms where they were hung loosely around her waist, even though all he wanted to do was pull her back to him. "I will always find you when you need me, Marian." And he meant it. Hawke didn't reply, but moved back to hugging him, one hand curled against him, the other slung around his waist and he stroked her back and hair.

A rough knock at the door followed by Varric's nearly inaudible "We need to be on our way" pulled them from their embrace. They both just looked at each other for a long moment, the spell of the last few minutes broken but neither of them quite willing just yet to let it fall away. The pounding on the door doubled and Hawke, pulled away and went to check herself in the mirror calling out "Yes, yes, I know. Hold on a minute." She hastily splashed her face and neck with water and scrubbed at herself briefly with the cloth that was laid nearby, taking a moment to evaluate the state of her bruises. Her eye finally looked like it wasn't drooping anymore and the colors on her face were nearly normal again with just a slight unevenness right around the eye and across the bridge of her nose. So she looked like she'd been in a bit of a tussel. Not bad work for a Rivaini hedge witch and Alistair's constant prodding at her with food.

Shouldering Hawke's pack for her, they unlocked the door and headed out to find food and an apothecary and generally kick around the market as-needed, leaving a note for Isabela should she return there looking for them. They'd been left largely alone in the house with just a few of Alistair's guards kicking around the place. Hawke's companions preferred sleeping quarters with easy access to alcohol and it seemed the house's owner hadn't left much in the way of a supply behind. As they left, Alistair's hand drifted to the small of her back. He tried to stop himself, really he did, but his hands kept drifting toward her. And she didn't seem to mind. Hawke was not the kind of woman who would put up with someone touching her when it was unwelcome. When making their way through the marketplace they would find themselves drifting closer together in the crush, hands touching, or elbows brushing and once, their fingers twisted together for just a moment until the press of the crowd pushed them apart again. The momentary thrills of coming into contact with one another like that out in public left Alistair grinning dumbly at everything. Noodle walked along in circles around them and sometimes between, as if he'd been through this market place a million times himself and had already mapped out the smells.

They made their way first to the inn that was near the healer's home where both Varric and Fenris had been staying from what Alistair had been told, both of them deciding that food was definitely the top order of the day. Despite the rosy, deeply tanned appearance to her skin, Hawke had seemed a little pale and Alistair was sure that an actual meal that wasn't thin broth and porridge now that her stomach should be able to handle it was in order. His own hunger helped make that decision easy and they settled in to a table at the inn, ordering whatever was available at that time of day, Noodle laying at their feet below the table, much to the annoyance of the inn-keeper. Alistair's guards, who had been following them through the market at a respectable distance also sat to eat, but remained several tables away in a corner where they could watch the door and the bulk of the room at once.

Alistair had made it through a mug of weak ale and one bowl of simple stew before he realized that Hawke was still poking at her bowl suspiciously as if she were deep in thought. When the waitress he'd signaled for another round of stew brought it to the table, without asking Alistair swapped their bowls, taking the one that had been in front of her and passing her his new bowl. She just blinked at him, confused. "Warden Metabolisms are ridiculously high. If there is poison or a sleeping draught in this, I'll process it much faster than you." It wasn't really true. Poison and potions affected him just as much as anyone else. But it sounded like it _could_ be true and that was good enough at the moment. He dug in, making it clear he didn't think there was anything amiss with it at all. "And they wouldn't bother poisoning me."

Hawke shot him an annoyed look "You have no way of knowing that, Alistair. And you're… " She leaned forward, dropping her voice even lower "you're the bloody king – you need to watch out for yourself, not just hope for the best. Stop eating that."

"Not until you eat at least some of what's in front of you." To punctuate his argument he slurped up a chunk of potato and chewed it, grinning peevishly at her.

She just continued to scowl at him "Do your guards know that _you_ are your own worst enemy? Forget protecting you from attacks, someone needs to smack you in the back of the head every time you come up with some ridiculous notion to throw yourself into danger for no good reason."

Taken slightly aback and the harshness of her tone, Alistair tilted his head at her. "You're a good reason, Hawke."

She shook her head, unconvinced and sighed down at the bowl in front of her. Reluctantly she picked up the spoon and began stabbing at the stew as if it had personally insulted her in some way. Alistair was sure that she wouldn't have even bothered if she didn't know that she definitely did need to eat something. If she felt she could hold out, she would have, even if it was just to deny him the satisfaction of being right. Eventually, though she took a bite, and another, chewing and swallowing with an obstinate sort of pace, like every spoonful was a private torture that she was enduring. She refused to look up at Alistair which was just as well since he was doing a terrible job of keeping the triumphant look off his face. While he was sure this sort of thing was supposed to annoy him – and maybe in some small way it did – he was more amused than anything else. Hawke was obviously used to getting her way. Not in the way that spoiled children are used to it – but in the way that, once she'd decided something it was a struggle to veer her away from it. Alistair had the sense that the fact that she could easily take care of most issues on her own stopped the vast majority of people from doing much more than falling into line. Arguing in the face of that surety, that resolve, would be daunting.

He also had a feeling that Hawke was doing a fantastic job of pretending that she was feeling better than she really was. She had deep purple circles under her eyes and instead of being taken in by the height of her cheekbones as he had been when he first met her, she just seemed slightly gaunt. Alistair also felt somewhat out of his depth. He'd never known anyone who was held for nearly a month and beaten and abused for the entirety of that time and then managed to escape and kill their captors. He thought for sure after the blight that he'd experienced nearly everything under the sun that there was to experience by way of dire situations but this was entirely new. So he did what he thought was right and hoped it all turned out.

In a way, he appreciated that there was a certain mulish obstinacy in her that he was just now coming to see. That didn't faze him. In fact, it may have made him more comfortable. He was accustomed to incredibly strong women in his life. Solona had displayed a similar single-mindedness and it had served them well most of the time. Until the time came for her to stop and take care of herself – then it became an unholy battle of wills to get her to do the simplest things like sleep or eat or even stop walking for five minutes to catch her breath. Solona had been the unstoppable force to his immovable object and, while they'd clashed regularly in those moments when they weren't of a single mind as to their purpose, when they were allied against something nothing held them back.

Still amused, but trying not to smile as he eyed Hawke's petulant attempt at eating, Alistair was surprised to see Varric saunter down the stairs looking pleased with himself. Varric always looked pleased with himself now that Alistair thought of it. Alistair raised his hand to wave Varric over and, looking slightly surprised himself, Varric dragged a chair over to their table and settled in. Hawke didn't even acknowledge him in favor of continuing to savage her meal.

Varric quirked an eyebrow at her and then looked to the king. "I haven't seen her that grumpy since the last time Fenris carried her back from the Wounded Coast under protest."

Hawke stabbed at the bowl even harder, gritting her teeth, "Shut it, Varric."

"You brooded and scowled at him for a week, Hawke, totally affronted that someone would dare suggest that you maybe shouldn't walk on a leg that had nearly been taken off."

Hawke's voice was harsh in response. "I was mad that I'd missed a trap, Varric. And have you _seen_ Fenris's pauldrons? Imagine that digging into your guts with every bounce for a few miles of rocky terrain."

Varric smirked "Should he have carried you princess style? Would that have made it all better?"

Hawke ignored him, putting the rest of her bowl of food down on the floor for Noodle to finish off.

"Okay, I'll stop poking the angry bear." Turning back to Alistair as the king slurped down the last of his stew, "So, Kingy, beyond getting out of that absconded house, what are you two doing today?"

Alistair wiped at his mouth and took a drink, "Well, I think we are wandering around the marketplace for a bit to quiz whoever it is that Hawke wants to quiz and then there isn't much else on the agenda. I need to check in with my guards at some point today but outside of that I'd-"

"Varric, give me your purse," Hawke had her hand stretched out, fingers waggling in Varric's direction.

A little surprised at the sudden interruption, Alistair quirked an eyebrow at her. Her demeanor had shifted from still huffy to a look of sharp intent. For his part, Varric had a look on his face like Hawke had just demanded him to cut off his dangly bits and put them in her hand. When he didn't answer, Hawke sighed at him "All my coin is locked up on Isabela's ship. I'm good for it, Varric." She waggled her fingers at him again. Very reluctantly Varric pulled out his purse and put it in her hand. She snatched it from him before he could change his mind and headed to the bar.

"You aren't even going to ask her what she's going to do with that?" Alistair was confused by the whole exchange.

Varric had turned in her seat to watch her go, sighing he rubbed his hand across his eyes "I know what she's going to do with it. She's going to go charm the pants off the bartender – not literally, that's not really her way – and then if that fails she'll pick some likely candidates and loosen their tongues with coin." Varric watched her as she ordered a drink from the bartender and began a seemingly nonchalant conversation that was anything but. He turned back to Alistair, eyes narrowed "Are you sure she didn't mention any other plans?"

Alistair shook his head, utterly bemused watching Hawke become best friends with the bartender in the span of a few minutes and one cheap drink which she only pretended to sip at. "No, marketplace, wanted to stop at an apothecary for reasons she didn't explain, and food – those were the only things she mentioned. You uh… you think she's up to something?"

Varric huffed out a laugh "When isn't she?"

Fenris was shuffling toward their table now, quickly followed by Isabela who was smirking at the elf's back and eyeing him up and down. They came over to the table, Fenris nodding by way of greeting as he sat. Fenris looked rumpled and poorly rested. That, combined with appearance of Isabela seeming extremely pleased with herself leant itself to all sorts of ideas.

"Where's our girl?" Isabela grabbed for Varric's drink and took a swig without asking. Alistair just pointed and Isabela winked at them all before heading off toward Hawke, Varric's stolen drink still in her hand. Varric grumbled under his breath at her and Fenris continued looking bedraggled and vaguely annoyed.

"Rough night?" Alistair tried to keep the smirk out of his voice but failed. After a pause during which he didn't think Fenris would respond, Fenris finally muttered "Yes," but said no more.

Alistair nodded, watching Isabela and Hawke talking to a man in the corner who was now paying no attention at all to Hawke and seemed to be mesmerized by Isabela's chest, even while he continued to answer the questions put to him. "She uh… keep you up?"

Fenris finally looked at Alistair and then followed his gaze. His face twisted into an angry scowl "Not the way you're suggesting. But yes. Apparently it's not enough for her to fill her bed with men and women at every opportunity – she also has to bellow, scream, and – worst – sing sea shanties all night."

Varric and Alistair both laughed at that "Hah. Hah. Very funny until you're one thin wall away from it all." Fenris stood then and grumbled and cursed his way over to the bar. Hawke came over to him and they had a conversation, heads close together. Hawke was smiling at him and placed a hand on his arm, giving it a squeeze in what seemed to be a comforting gesture. Fenris just nodded at her before turning back to his drink. Isabela was in the midst of a group of men, seemingly oblivious to all else around her.

Hawke approached the table again, looking calm and at ease without even a hint of her previous annoyance. "Ready to go when you are."

Alistair stood and, before she could turn and walk away from him, reached out for her hand. She stopped and looked at his hand and then up at his face. For a moment he was worried that something more than being a little put out had been the issue previously because she looked at him so blankly. But then her smile broke through and she snickered a little, making it clear that she'd been trying, and failing, to look angry. He narrowed his eyes at her and stepped closer, inclining his head so that he could speak quietly, their foreheads almost touching. "I'm sorry if I annoyed you."

Hawke shook her head "No… well, I mean, yes, you did annoy me. But no, don't worry about it. You're right. I'm just feeling… well… "

Alistair finished for her "Paranoid for very good reasons. I understand. And I hope _you_ understand why I'm going to fight you on it."

Hawke nodded at him, the corner of her mouth quirked up, "So this was just the first of many opportunities to show off just how petty I can be. Fantastic. You should jump ship while you can still get away from me." And while there was humor in her voice and a wry smile on her face, Alistair knew that there was more to it, a deep layer of warning and _run from me as fast as you can_ that had been hammered into her through years of experiences where those around her seemed to suffer. And since all of that suffering came from such diffuse directions, it would be easy for her to surmise that the only common factor was her.

Alistair looked at her evenly and with a solemnity to his voice said "I'm here, Marian - and more than that I'm not going anywhere. Not without you. You're stuck with me." Hawke looked at him with that same vaguely disbelieving expression. Alistair was determined he'd make her understand at some point and in the meantime if it continued to confuse her, so be it. "Right – let's get on with… whatever it is we're doing, fearless leader."

Shouldering Hawke's pack, Alistair waved to Varric as they made their way back out into the press of bodies outside the inn. Once they were in and among the crowd once more he found the dance of touches and glances amid the waves of people just as exhilarating as it had been before they ducked into the inn. While Alistair wasn't sure how long that particular aspect of being around her would last, he found himself not worrying about it. If it faded, other aspects would take its place. Instead of thrills there would be comfort. Instead of newness there would be sureness. And Alistair found himself looking forward to every moment of it.

….…..

After a day spent quizzing an apothecary and locating a few of Isabela's more reliable contacts in poison and assassination tools, Hawke was able to procure a new set of lock picks, having left hers behind in Kirkwall, as well as some herbs and recipes which she was assured would counteract the effects of the type of sleeping draught used against her. Figuring out what it had been exactly had taken the most time and once they did figure it out both of Isabela's contacts went strangely quiet about it and its origins. While it didn't help her get any closer to finding The Punching Man, it certainly cleared up the nagging question of just how much of his demeanor had been trained cruelty and how much was natural. From the way they went quiet it was clear that that a sleeping draught that could be hidden in something as bland as water and go undetected was used by only very few and very dangerous people.

Alistair hadn't seemed to pick up much from the conversations, but he also was very good at looking like he wasn't paying any attention at all when she knew he definitely was. Hawke was sure that a skill like that was very useful in Denerim. She rarely got anywhere by pointedly playing dumb. Women typically saw right through it and Men were more than happy to blather on in front of a woman who appeared shrewd either because they assumed it was a façade or because they wanted to impress her. For a man to be able to pull off the babe-in-the-woods routine was interesting and unique. It would lend additional credibility to very pointed questions asked in a seemingly innocent way and add gravity to times when he chose to be forthright or menacing. And the thing with Alistair was – he probably had no idea that he'd even been able to cultivate such a boon for himself.

Both Alistair and Hawke had a tendency to chat affably with the merchants whose goods they browsed, but for Hawke it was purposeful and for Alistair it seemed completely natural. As a byproduct, he was terrible at haggling, especially after just hearing the merchant tell him about his wife and kids. Hawke felt no such shame. If the merchant wouldn't bargain lower than she wanted, she'd go elsewhere. If he'd meet her price, it was because he obviously could afford to. Alistair assumed the best of common people and the worst of nobles. While Hawke just assumed the worst of everyone until she could tell otherwise. Thinking about their differences only led Hawke to a few different conclusions, none of which she liked. So she decided to try to focus on their similarities. To this point, that list was pathetically short as far as she could see. So she decided to stop thinking about it altogether for awhile. The constant touching from Alistair was starting to make her wonder, though.

She wasn't against it. Not at all – it was nice. But it was still… unexpected. She thought perhaps that he was simply very relieved that she was okay. And she was – she was okay. She kept reminding herself of that, trying to force herself to believe it.

While she sat at the edge of a reflecting pond in the center of the market – with the guards, at Alistair's insistence, she smiled at Alistair's attempt to haggle with the merchant he was talking to. She could tell it wasn't going well, but it was completely adorable that he kept trying. Some part of her brain kept screaming at her that this wasn't right, that she shouldn't trust it. But she knew how she felt. She'd had plenty of time in that dungeon to think and she'd come to realize that she cared about Alistair far more than she should. He wasn't just a friend to her. She tried to keep Sebastian in mind whenever the thought of what that might mean made her chest clench – just feel how you feel and enjoy the time you have. She had to trust her own feelings. Kirkwall had taught her that. Kirkwall. She still had nightmares about Orsino and killing all those mages. Some of them had even been friendly toward her. The fact that Cullen was there was likely the only reason the Templars hadn't attempted to go ahead and kill her anyway. She knew too much, she'd been involved in too much. It would be far simpler were she to just die in battle. The falling of the circles, she was sure that it was happening so swiftly because of the mage underground. And she was equally sure that their steadfastness was fueled by rage at what had happened in Kirkwall. The avalance had started there and even without Anders alive and in the world to tell his tales her name would have still been closely tied to it all along with the word "responsible".

She wondered - had Justice retreated to the fade? Was he still truly entwined with Anders? Was he satisfied and pleased with his work? She knew there would be no answers. And even if there were, who would give them? She had told them to leave and never return. If they were wise they would do just that. If they were what she'd come to expect out of Anders and his parasite, she knew she would see them again.

As Alistair made his way back over to her, smiling, he asked in a quiet voice "I think you've thoroughly intimidated that stone."

She'd been staring at the ground and hadn't realized her fists had clenched and she'd gone rigid. This was precisely why she didn't think about Kirkwall. She had no control over her emotions when she did. Shrugging she unbunched her hands and smirked at Alistair "It had it coming, trust me."

"Ready to head to the docks?"

Hawke simply nodded and they set off.


	36. Chapter 36

Fenris was already on Isabela's ship waiting for them when they arrived.

While Alistair just sort of meandered around the deck with his guards in tow, looking like a mother duck leading her babies, Fenris kept watch as Hawke picked the lock to Isabela's cabin. Isabela wasn't there herself to unlock it and she'd broken into Hawke's estate enough times that she really didn't feel bad about doing it. Once inside they were able to locate the chest where Isabela had stored all of the possessions Hawke had brought with her. It, too, was locked and with a far more complex piece of hardware than Hawke was expecting. So while she tinkered with the lock, Fenris searched for a key. Isabela didn't exactly have a lot of pockets and she tended to get things bought for her as opposed to buying them herself. She sometimes hid things in her boot, but only if she knew she would need it. The chest of Hawke's things was probably not on that list so it was reasonable to assume that the key would be somewhere there in the cabin.

Eventually, Hawke managed to get the lock popped open, whooping out in celebration and calling off Fenris's search. "Maybe she actually hid it in a non-ridiculous place this time. "In the drawer with my smalls" is getting far too predictable."

Fenris headed out and down the crew quarters to get Hawke's personal chest from her bunk while she crouched down and rifled through the contents to see what was hers and what things were items Isabela had just thrown in there.

"There you are!" Alistair poked his head in through the door to the cabin and then made his way inside "I was beginning to think I'd actually lost you on a ship." He looked over her shoulder into the chest "Oooh... that's an… interesting assortment. "The Rose of Orlais", huh? I have a friend who likes that book."

Hawke smirked up at him "That book isn't mine. The smutty books, this" Hawke held up a riding crop, "and this" Hawke held up a very pretty, ornately carved, music box that looked like something directly out of a little girl's bedroom "are all Isabela's. Everything else is mine."

Fenris shoved his way in through the door and placed Hawke's personal chest next to her on the floor. Realizing that the key for it was on her person when she was taken and not there when she woke up, she picked that lock as well and began transferring the contents, trying to get two different sets of armor and under padding and various folios of papers and coin purses to fit in all together with her other meager belongings.

"You know, I don't know how I feel about you being so adept at that." Alistair said, wandering around the cabin and looking at the nautical charts on the walls.

Hawke scoffed "The first time you lose a key you'll change your tune."

"That's one idea for what to do with yourself when we get to Denerim." Alistair quipped.

"Burglar?" Hawke shot back.

"Locksmith"

…..

Evening approached as they made their way to the far end of the dock where the king's ship, named The Calenhad, was moored. It was a grandiose name for a small ship, but Fereldens weren't known for their humility when it came to their naming conventions. Or their originality, given the number of Solonas and Alistairs that had been recorded in the Chantry records since the end of the Blight.

Fenris and Hawke were both settled into rooms and the crew scrambled to provide Hawke's room with a pallet of blankets for Noodle should he actually choose not to crowd her out of the bed, which was unlikely. Nearly all of the sailors on board made fools of themselves cooing over Noodle, excited to see a Mabari this far from home and such an enormous specimen of one as well. Noodle was clearly the type of Mabari who was more than happy to receive and appreciate the attention of strangers. The thought of him living in Kirkwall for the last several years was more than a little strange since people in the Free Marches would not appreciate Mabari as Fereldens did. Alistair left them to it while he checked on correspondence that, according to his guards, arrived that morning. The bundle of letters included several messages about the state of affairs in Denerim that he needed to respond to, including one polite sounding letter from Anora. Alistair knew her well enough by now to read between the lines, however. Eamon was beginning to push his luck with his constant dismissive air toward her and her requests for the Arling. The tentative peace between the two of them would not last much longer at this rate. He would have to respond to her immediately.

As he was drafting additional correspondence, there was a knock at his door. "Come!"

Hawke and Fenris sauntered into the room and, glancing up at them, it struck Alistair just how clearly they belonged in each other's company. There was an unspoken sort of attachment obvious in the way they moved around the room, the way they watched what was happening around them, that spoke of long hours fighting together, watching campsites together, and coming to trust each other. It was a type of companionship that he was distinctly jealous of and sorely missed. Alistair hurried to finish his letter writing and reading while they took up positions in the room, patiently keeping quiet until he was ready to talk.

His last letter done, sanded, and sealed, he shuffled through the stack of remaining letters that weren't from the capital to determine what needed his immediate attention and what could be put off. He raised his eyes once as he did so and addressed them finally, "Sorry to be so rude, there's just some work I have to complete."

"It's no trouble, your majesty. We were just going to head back into town for dinner and wondered if you'd like to join us." Fenris's low rumble of a voice always lent everything he said an additional gravity, no matter how casual the actual words. It may also have been his phrasing. He was precise and nearly stiff in the way he spoke in the way that every seneschal he'd ever met was. It was an odd counterpoint to his unique tattoos, his bristling armor, and the intimidating sword he hefted so easily. He'd certainly make an … interesting… addition to the court at Denerim.

"Yes, I would like that. Just give me a moment and we can leave."

"Of course." Fenris inclined his head just slightly in a bow.

Hawke was sitting cross-legged atop a row of cabinets that had been built in to one side of the room, a book Alistair hadn't seen her grab laid open across her lap and she flipped through it, pausing and running her finger down passages as she skimmed the contents. He's never really seen her this quiet or aloof and he vaguely wondered if anything was wrong but pushed the thought away – he couldn't hover over her worrying at every shift in mood constantly. He'd drive her and himself insane in the process.

He quickly read over the rest of his correspondence, pausing to let what he'd just read sink in before shuffling the papers together again. He stood and stretched as he spoke, "Well, looks like we're making a detour west before heading back south to Ferelden. I'd planned on stopping in Amaranthine anyway before moving no to Denerim but this will add some time to the journey."

"West? Back to Antiva?" Hawke finally spoke.

"Rialto – we're picking up Zevran."

Fenris scowled "The insufferable assassin."

Alistair liked Fenris more and more all the time. But Hawke scoffed "He's not that bad, Fenris."

Fenris shook his head "He is that that bad. He's like Jethann with an accent and daggers."

Alistair quirked an eyebrow "Jethann?"

Hawke was giggling "A very saucy and persistent elven whore who worked at the Blooming Rose. Fenris took his advances a little… personally."

Fenris shot her an ugly look "You weren't there, Hawke. He… He _touched_ me."

That just made Hawke laugh harder and Alistair sensed it would be best to get them all moving before it devolved into an actual argument.

They made their way to a small house that Isabela had given Fenris directions to earlier in the day along with a few of Alistair's guards following at a discrete distance. Isabela opened the door for them when Fenris knocked exclaiming "You made it!", rosy cheeked and clearly already well into her cups. The house belonged to a friend of hers, and everyone was careful not to inquire too deeply about who exactly he was. It was best that way. He had prepared a fantastic meal for them of roasted foul and fish as well as a variety of grain dishes and salads. It was nearly luxurious given what they'd all been eating for the last several months – especially for Hawke who couldn't remember the last time she'd had anything remotely green or vegetal to eat. Because this was a friend of Isabela's, Alistair noted that Hawke's paranoia about the food was well tempered and he only caught her narrowing her eyes at what she was served briefly but her hunger kicked in.

They drank and ate well into the night – far later than any of them had expected to. And while it was clear from Isabela and Fenris's veiled looks at Hawke that she was not yet completely back to her old self, it was an improvement. She was still a little too quiet, a little too eager to sit back and let the conversations happen without her involvement. At one point in the night, Alistair discretely took her hand under the table and she shot him a sad smile, squeezing his hand back.

Eventually they made their way back to the docks and to the ship and while both Hawke and Fenris made for their cabins, Alistair was able to catch up to her and tug at her sleeve before she could slip away.

Looking back at him with that same expression somewhere between completely blank and sad for just a moment he could see the decision she made to smile instead. Seeing her fake it for his sake hurt and his first instinct was to just say "nevermind" and leave her alone. And he suddenly understood why Solona had done exactly the same thing to him so often. But he pushed on, asking the question he'd intended when he stopped her.

"You haven't said so, but I have a feeling we'll be heading back into the Tailor's basement tomorrow while the crew prepares the ship to leave. Is… that correct?"

She looked surprised for a moment and turned her shoulders toward him – that same gesture he'd seen earlier in the day, the one that seemed to signal a decision. "Yes, that was my plan, but I wasn't going to ask you along."

And that stung as well, but he kept his voice neutral "Would you prefer I not be there?"

Thankfully, she shook her head, "No, not at all. I just didn't expect you to come with me. You… you went down there once for me, and that was unexpected enough. I wouldn't ask you to do it again."

"Well, I would like to come with you, if that's alright."

Hawke seemed to think it over, eyeing him steadily in a way that was unnervingly like being read. Eventually she nodded just slightly "Okay. We'll gather at the Tavern to pick up Varric and Isabela as early as possible and then head down. If we're up before you in the morning I'll… wake you? Or do I send a guard to do it? I … I don't know how all this… protocol… works." She looked up at him sheepishly and he couldn't help but grin at that.

"The guards know it's okay for you to enter my cabin. They won't stop you. There are unfortunate levels of propriety I have to maintain with my guard nearby but that's one I am not concerned about – not on the ship anyway. Is there anything you need before you retire?"

Hawke shook her head "No, I think I'm … well… I might have an odd request. Is there… Maker this is going to sound strange."

"Ooh… that's promising." Alistair smirked at her.

"Heh, well… do you think it would be possible to cram another bed into my cabin?"

Alistair quirked an eyebrow at her and she continued, "It's for Fenris… I … I haven't asked him yet but I- " all pretence of being carefree had fled her expression and she looked vaguely haunted "I don't think I can sleep alone. Noodle will be there, but I would feel more comfortable if Fenris were there as well. And I don't think the two of us sharing a narrow bed would allow either of us to sleep." She grimaced slightly "Especially since he'll likely insist on keeping his armor on."

Alistair hated that on a ship surrounded by guards and with an enormous mabari in the room she still feared that something might happen to her while she was defenseless. He understood, but it stabbed at him. He himself had spent the last week sleeping perched on the edge of her bed, above the covers but well within reach should she need it. While it had been far more chaste of an arrangement than it probably looked from the outside, he also knew – and hadn't mentioned or reacted to – the number of times that her hand had landed on his back in the middle of the night, palm patting at him gently as a reassurance of his presence.

"Of course, I'll ask the captain to have that arranged. We have a spare cabin and I'm sure we can have the bed from there moved in. It might take a bit, I'm afraid."

"I won't be sleeping anytime soon anyway," she said, with that same sad smile on her face that looked like it actually hurt to make.

Alistair reached out for her hand and brought it to his lips, kissing her knuckles and breathing against the back of her hand for a moment before letting it go.

"I'll go fetch the captain before I turn in. Goodnight, Marian."

"Goodnight, Alistair."

…..

The next day, still in Rivain and bringing on supplies, it seemed Hawke had rested some, some of the dark purple of the bags under her eyes had faded and she seemed to have more color to her skin. But Fenris looked tense and odd. After making their way back to the tavern they'd been to before heading to the docks, Alistair took the opportunity of Hawke being distracted talking to the bartender to ask how their night had passed. Fenris shook his head mournfully, "She is not half as well as she pretends. I hadn't realized before but… it's more than just the kidnaping. I… should have gone with her when she left Kirkwall. She needed more than Isabela."

Hawke was returning so Alistair lost the opportunity to ask more questions. Apparently the bartender had taken such a shine to Hawke that he was not accepting her coin that day. Alistair joked that they could have used some of those skills during the Blight and then went on to ask if she'd ever been interested in drafting trade agreements between countries. She dutifully quipped and laughed in return and Alistair had a sick moment of wondering just how much of her personality was crafted for the benefit of others. He didn't want to think about it at all and especially not just then. If it was all just a convenient mask then he had to wonder how deep it went and how much of what he'd come to know of her was façade. And this was the worst possible time for such thoughts when he knew what a defense mechanism it must be for her. He'd been accussed of nearly the same thing himself, using humor to deflect and avoid but it was an integral part of his personality. Perhaps it was the same for her.

He decided that he would take his cues from Fenris on the matter and chided himself for once again decending into worry.

The whole band of them joined at a table and ate a breakfast, though Hawke stuck to bread, he noticed. Then they made their way to Isabela's ship and took one of the small rowboats in her compliment down the coast to a small cave. Isabela had previously done some scouting and determined that this was the smuggler's tunnel exit to the coast. None of them, unfortunately, had thought to bring a torch and so were forced to feel their way along the tunnels walls for quite a distance, stubbing toes and stumbling over each other until they entered the portion of the tunnels they'd been in before. The torches had all burned out but with something in a flask Varric had been carrying, a rag, and a flint struck against one of Hawke's daggers, they were able to relight a few of the sconces and one that they pulled down to light their way as they moved room to room.

Isabela played torch bearer through most of the rooms with Hawke by her side, daggers drawn, despite the fact that she wasn't actually wearing armor – which bothered Alistair a great deal. It was fine for Varric to think that a leather jacket counted as armor, but he stood at the back of the group with a crossbow. Hawke's fighting style was more about leaping into the midst of enemies and using their own momentum against them. It necessitated that they be swinging at her with intent to strike her down to even be effective most of the time and to do that without armor seemed more than foolish, it felt downright suicidal.

His worry was for nothing, however. There was not a single person in the lower passage. The bodies of those they'd killed had also all been removed, and the floors and walls scrubbed down as well. Outside of the faint metallic tang of blood left lingering in the air there was no evidence that many people had died there. Once they'd been through the tunnels once, Hawke took the torch and Fenris with her again to poke through each room thoroughly. While Alistair didn't think she'd find anything, he understood her need to search again. They eventually found a hidden door due to a seam of mortar looking a slightly different color than those around it – but only slightly. Once the door was swung open, they found a tidy little office that was completely bare, though recently used. The ink in the open well was still wet, and there were sheaves of fresh parchment as well as a chest nearby, though it proved to be empty.

Hawke was clearly disappointed and to ameliorate her feelings more than anything else, Varric took up a piece of parchment and, after digging through his pouch, produced a piece of charcoal used for drawing. He scraped the whole thing across the parchment pressed the desk's surface. The resulting imprint showed a few words, but the majority was numbers, money amounts, next to "bid" and "ransom". Fenris told Hawke about the note they found on one of the runners who had left the tailor shop and she seemed to deflate.

"So what we know is that someone wrote letters here."

"I would assume so."

"I'm sorry for wasting everyone's time. I just hoped…" Hawke trailed off as she looked around the tiny office. "… it doesn't matter. I guess we should go."

Trudging back through the tunnels in the dark, Alistair wanted to get close enough to Hawke to touch her hand but she was keeping herself away from everyone else and he didn't want to make a show of stopping for her to wait for her to catch up. In the small boat on the way back to Isabela's ship she sat in the very bow, her back to everyone else, clearly uninterested in speaking. She remained exactly that way until they made it back to the ship and then picked their way through the docks to The Calenhad where she promptly disappeared into her cabin and remained for the rest of the night. Alistiar wasn't sure what he could have said or if his presence would even be welcome, so he left her alone, assuming that Fenris would know better than he what should be done and what Hawke would need.

The next morning the crew began final preparations to leave Llomerryn and begin the trip across the mouth of Rialto Bay to the city of Rialto. Zevran's message had been vague, and had simply requested to be picked up. Normally, it was something Alistair would have been tempted to ignore. But in truth, he wondered how Zevran was really doing. They'd only exchanged letters a few times since the end of the Blight and they hadn't seen each other at all. Not that he'd exactly gone out of his way to hold on to any of their old companions. Oghren was with the Wardens in Amarnthine, Leilianna was working with the Divine in Orlais, Sten had taken off to Par Vollen or Seheron or wherever he'd gone to make his report. And Zevran was… just gone. He stayed long enough to watch Solona's pyre burn to cold ash and then left without any farewells.

The idea of seeing Zevran was both troubling – he would bring with him many memories, some of them utterly unwelcome – and somewhat a relief. He felt out of his depth with what was happening with Hawke and he could use every ally he could get just then.

Hawke and Fenris left the ship just once during the day, Noodle at their heels. Fenris again looked troubled, which was bad enough. But then Alistair caught a glimpse of Hawke and she was just blank. Not even a placid or neutral expression on her face, just a sleepwalker's look to her, with eyes open but expressionless, face slack. She looked exhausted and drawn yet she was still moving away from the ship and through the crowds at the docks with purpose, shoulders squared, head up. She didn't seem dejected or sad. That would have been better. Instead she seemed… hollow.

The crew was finishing loading in the last of their supplies when Fenris and Hawke returned with several new sacks and parcels. They entered Hawke's cabin as wordlessly as they'd left, but Fenris came back out onto the deck shortly after. He went to the railing and leaned his hands against it, head bowed, and seemed to let out a long sigh. Alistair was watching him and it seemed as if, after a moment, the elf could sense the eyes on him, turning his head sharply to look directly at Alistair. He bobbed his head at the king and then made his way slowly over to him.

"Is everything alright, Fenris? You look… well I'm not sure how you look. Annoyed? Disturbed?"

"Yes, I'm sure I do. I … I don't think I've ever gone through a whole day of Hawke not speaking. Even on death's door she keeps up a babbling running dialogue of observations and bad jokes. I thought she might start getting better but… " Fenris trailed off, lost for what exactly he should say.

Alistair himself looked rather worried "Well, perhaps she'll just need some time. It's only been a few days. That can't have been easy to deal with."

Fenris shook his head "It's… Kirkwall. She's… " Fenris paused and glanced around, then moved closer and lowered his voice "She's been having nightmares when she sleeps at all. I don't know if they were going on while she was on Isabela's ship or not. But I can't imagine the crew would have put up with her in their sleeping quarters if they were. She's thrashing in her sleep, talking… crying. She's got Noodle so on edge that he was snapping at complete strangers in the market today for getting too close."

"How do you know it's Kirkwall that's on her mind and not the kidnapping?"

"She… she was talking to Anders in her sleep last night."

Alistair sighed and ran a hand over his face. "I know that you and Varric told me about what happened but how was she? How was she really?"

Fenris was quiet for a moment and began pacing in a tight circuit while the thought. "Everything that day came down to everyone turning on her. Anders, Orsino, Meredith… us."

Alistair looked at Fenris, confused, "We turned on her just as much as anyone else. We all stood there and pushed her to kill him – Sebastian actually threatened to bring an army to Kirkwall for her and Anders if she didn't. When she refused, she tried to get him to fight with us and he wouldn't have it. I thought she might kill him then but she let him go. It… it didn't make any sense to me. After the fighting, once she was installed as Viscountess, we argued about it. Just once. Having to put someone who had been her friend to the blade was just a step too far for her on top of everything else. And having us all just stand there and make our demands without being willing to step forward ourselves… it was cowardly on our parts. Varric and Isabela feel guilty – which is why they're skulking off back to Kirkwall together instead of being here for her."

Alistair nodded "But you're here for her."

Fenris seemed to tense at that "I am. Little good it does. I… don't remember having a friend before her. I am no good at this type of thing. There are often times when I feel I should say something but I have no idea what to say. But I can't allow her to carry this alone, not when I feel I'm partly to blame."

Alistair crossed his arms over his chest and leaned back against the railing near Fenris. "I am sure she appreciates you just being there. She even requested that you be moved into her cabin. I know it doesn't help erase what guilt you feel, but she clearly trusts you. Don't discount the importance of that."

Fenris did not agree, but neither did he disagree, and Alistair was fairly certain that that was as close as he would get to any sort of consensus with Fenris on the matter. Alistair clapped Fenris on the shoulder as they parted ways. Alistair dashed off a quick note and had a guard run it to the inn Varric was staying in to let them know that they were departing shortly and that if Isabela or Varric wanted to say goodbye they would need to do it soon. He wanted to add that they had better show up, but refrained. He wasn't going to interfere to that extent. If they truly were hiding from her out of guilt, it might best that they not show their faces afterall.

It was a few hours later, nearly dark, when they were just about to pull up the gangplank that Varric appeared on the dock looking vaguely nervous. Fenris went to Hawke's cabin to bring her down to the dock. All three of them spoke for a few minutes and Varric reached out to pat Hawke on the arm. Her only gesture was a nod, before she turned and made her way back up onto the ship, past Alistair, and directly back into her cabin. Fenris came back and stood next to Alistair as the crew began casting off.

"That looked awkward." Alistair had a wry grin on his face.

Fenris simply nodded, "It was."

"Don't get seasick do you?"

Fenris chuckled "No. Noodle might though."

Alistair couldn't help laughing .

"Half of what we got at the market today was ingredients for simple potions to settle his stomach."

"And the other half?"

Fenris smirked "Hawke has a weakness for Rivaini silk, it seems. I'm sure the merchants were more than happy to know she won't be back anytime soon. She haggles like a woman on her last sovereign. But she took enough with her to outfit a small harem of women with gowns for a year." Fenris shot him a warning look, "You didn't hear that from me."

Alistair just laughed again. Fenris had grown on him immensely. His dedication to Hawke was surely a large part of that, but the man himself was surprisingly pleasant company. It would certainly be an … interesting… trip home.

..…

Alistair tried to relax while they sailed across the mouth of Rialto Bay. While this wasn't exactly a relaxing vacation spot, the weather was warm, the skies were clear, and he couldn't be reached while at sea so correspondence and the immediate concerns of ruling were minimal. The first night they were at sea Hawke remained in her cabin. On one of his circuits around the ship, just strolls around – certainly not trips past her cabin door that he made several times a day in the hopes of catching her coming out – he heard Hawke and Fenris speaking. He didn't catch much of what was said, but Fenris sounded frustrated with her and both of them were speaking with slightly raised voices.

The next day, as Alistair reclined across a few crates, using a bag of grain as a pillow, a shadow passed over him. He reluctantly opened his eyes, unwilling to let go of the pleasant spate of daydreaming he'd been indulging in. Thankfully, the object of his daydreams was standing right over him, looking down at him with a slight hint of a grin on her face.

"Getting some sun, I see."

"I figured if I am going to sell this whole "off being adventurous" line to my advisors once we're back in Denerim I should try to get a little color." He stayed where he was, blinking up at her, sure that if he were to move too suddenly she'd bolt like a rabbit. "Would you… care to join me?"

Hawke nodded at him "That would be lovely," she reached down and patted his hip "scoot over."

Alistair did as he was instructed and she laid down right next to him, less than a hand span separating their sides from touching, her hands resting across her stomach, their heads sharing his makeshift pillow as they both closed their eyes again against the glare of the sun. Alistair had a ridiculous fluttery nervous feeling. She was right there – finally – and he felt like an idiot. He might even be blushing. He had no idea what to say so, instead of employing his usual strategy of babbling futilely until he either annoyed someone or stumbled on to something worth saying, he kept his mouth shut and tried to enjoy the fact that she'd sought him out.

"Fenris told me in no uncertain terms that I've been a complete ass in general lately and to you specifically."

Startled, Alistair stammered a bit "What? No, I wouldn't say that. You… You've been quiet, certainly and I've wondered when you might come out of your cabin or if you're even eating anything. I have also had more conversations with Noodle than I have had with you personally, but well, he is a very charming Mabari."

Hawke chuckled lightly at that. "He is very charming, but he's not much of a conversationalist." She went quiet and Alistair waited. She was talking to him. As far as he was concerned he could wait as long as she needed. "Look – I'm not doing very well with… everything. I'm trying to be better, I'm trying to just… work through it. But it's…" Hawke seemed to be grappling for a word. "It's difficult."

Alistair nodded, though he was sure they both had their eyes closed "I understand, I really do."

They were both quiet again for a few moments before Alistair heard movement at his side. He was sure that Hawke was getting up and leaving, preparing to resign himself to wait and hope that she would eventually begin to talk to him again, when he felt her hand at his elbow. It trailed down his arm to his wrist and her fingers wrapped around his wrist to pull it toward her. After a moment, she'd intertwined their fingers and was squeezing his hand. Shielding his eyes, he peeked out at her and saw that she'd shifted to her side, and she was turned toward him, smiling just slightly as she squinted in the sun. He smiled back, broad and happy and so very relieved. Seeing even the slightest of smiles on her face again – a real smile, not one that she chose to show him – it made his chest ache. They lay like that for a long time, occasionally one of them would comment and the other would reply, but most of their time was spent in silence, letting the heat of the day lull them into sleep.

…..

Hawke didn't dream at all while she laid there with Alistair. And it was a relief. Her knees pressed against his side, his hand cradled in hers between them. As they napped, they shifted occasionally, moving slightly closer until she awoke to realize that she had her forehead pressed against his shoulder and her top leg pulled just slightly further up, resting on top of his thigh. Alistair had turned his head and the breath from his nose ruffled her hair at the crown of her head. And while this was far too intimate a position to be in, surrounded by guards and crewmen, she couldn't force herself to move away. The simple comfort of his presence was shocking to her. The fact that she'd been sequestering herself from it felt like a punishment suddenly – some self-imposed exile that made no sense at all. For the first time it occurred to her that she'd been punishing him as well. And for what? Coming to find her? Caring enough to risk himself for her? It was ridiculous. It was easy to admit that she should be better to him. It was difficult to think that maybe she should be better to herself. She felt responsible for everything that had happened in Kirkwall no matter how many times Fenris argued to the contrary. It was a repeat of how she'd felt when her mother died – that she should have done more, been faster, been smarter, stronger – something. And that had just been a repeat of Bethanny's death and of Carver's. She was doomed to always feel inadequate when it mattered most.

But Alistair had come for her on the back of a note from a thief, walking right into danger of unknown origin. She'd known people to run into danger for those they cared for but this felt bigger than that, somehow. It felt significant in a way she couldn't really describe.

She didn't sleep again, but as the sun was beginning to dip and the glare lessened, she kept her eyes on him, watching him sleep. Tentatively, she reached her free hand up and lightly brushed her fingers over the hair at his forehead, admiring the way the sun caught the strands and made some of them golden, some of them red. He shifted slightly in his sleep, half a murmur escaping his lips, but he did not wake up completely. A wave of feeling crashed over her, caught somewhere between tears and intense happiness. He was beautiful. His spirit was light, warm, and honorable in a way that she wasn't sure she'd ever encountered before. He seemed nearly unreal to her in many ways when it came to his character, the basic components of what made up the man that he was. Adding in the fact that he was also a ridiculously handsome man, more than just well built or passably attractive, and the fact that his life had somehow still managed not to sully him or use up his goodness was nothing short of amazing. He was that prince that little girls dream of made flesh and laying here beside her in the sun, crewmen and guards milling around, casting looks at them out of the corners of their eyes, pretending that they weren't actually gawking. It was audacious behavior for a king in the presence of so many people who could talk and spread rumors.

It was completely incautious of her, something that she would typically have never done with so many people around and perhaps not even in private, but her character had been so changed in the last few months that she didn't wonder about it too much as she brought her fingers down along his cheek, tracing the planes of his face and his jaw. She was staring into his eyes as they opened and, watching them focus on her, she saw something there that she'd been hoping for just as much as she'd been scared of it. His eyes were light brown, almost tawny, like caramel. But up close there were tiny flecks of gold and of darker brown near their centers. They were beautiful, warm eyes that fit him perfectly. He smiled at her, and she didn't move her hand away. Instead, she crept closer and Alistair moved his arm to encircle her shoulders and she laid her head against his chest. The tears did come then, but slowly, running down and soaking into his thin shirt, a trickle that passed through her without sobs or wailing, as his hand made circles against her shoulder and his other hand clasped hers against his chest, just over his heart.

He didn't ask why she was crying. She wasn't sure she'd be able to answer if he had. He just held her as the sun dipped to the horizon and cast the sky in deep reds and pinks and purples. She'd never fit anywhere in her life. She'd been a stranger by design among friends, among family, and in society in general even when she desperately wanted to have a place. But she fit here, tucked against his side, his heartbeat against her ear. And when he turned his head and pressed a kiss to her forehead, she realized she was grateful, relieved, exhausted, mostly broken, over-awed, and completely in love with Alistair.

….


	37. Chapter 37

Over the next two days, Hawke spent most of her time in Alistair's company. It was still difficult to reconcile allowing herself to be anything other than miserable with the weight of her conscience, but she was determined that even if she couldn't do it for herself, she'd do it for him. She hadn't even realized how worried Alistair had really been until she saw it lift off of him. She apologized to him for keeping so strictly to herself, which he of course waved off. But she could tell that he appreciated the sentiment regardless.

Fenris was obviously relieved to see her leaving her cabin on her own and talking to people other than himself and Noodle. Her nights were still difficult, but she'd gotten much more sleep and had even repeated the daytime nap in the sun with Alistair, completely unexpectedly. She'd laid down to enjoy the breeze and the sun and woke up to early evening, Alistair beside her. She wouldn't admit to it if asked, but upon realizing he was there she shifted slightly so that her side brushed up against him and then pretended to sleep again. She didn't miss the way he pressed back and then stayed there or the way his finger brushed down her arm before settling again.

The dark purple marks under her eyes were beginning to fade and she found herself able to focus on the here and now more easily than she had in months because there was finally something worth focusing on. While Isabela's company had provided her a distraction and distance, Isabela was all too eager not to push her to talk or to deal with anything. What should have been time to have a cathartic release; time to deal with feelings that welled in her and then leave them behind, moving on, instead the quiet and Isabela's squeamish nature about emotions let them fester. She was still angry in a bone deep way that frightened her if she dwelled on it.

Her body, too, was recovering. She didn't feel quite as weak as she had in the days after she'd been taken to the healer and nearly all her bruises were gone except for a few on her legs that had been exceptionally deep and brutal. She tried stretching and some light slow motion sparring with Fenris here and there to try to stay active but was quickly exhausted by the exercise, making their bouts rather short and perfunctory. It was frustrating to her, to feel weak. Fenris and Alistair both insisted she needed to eat more but they were both plying her with so much food all the time that she felt like a prized goose being fattened up for feast day.

But looking at Alistair, talking to him, being able to simply reach out and take his hand or lean back into his chest as they stood together at the railing had been like a storm clearing. His presence didn't make everything magically better, but it at least made her feel like she might get beyond this all somehow. And perhaps more importantly, made her sure that she _wanted_ to get beyond it. Those few months at sea when she'd gone invisible, gone mute… she hadn't been so sure that she had the desire to be anything other than a ghost. Ghosts don't so much as stir the air. They have no needs and no one needs them. It was all too tempting of an idea to simply… disappear.

Alistair didn't push her to talk about what was on her mind, though she knew he wanted to. He would clench his jaw or his fingers would twitch just slightly when he was trying to school himself into patience. In moments like that, seeing him restrain himself for her benefit, it was difficult not to just let it all pour out. But she was scared that if she did, she'd never stop. She wanted to tell him everything, but she was sure he would be frightened by it in some way or that the rage she was still walking around with would push them apart. She couldn't stand the thought of that, not when she felt like she had just come to realize how much he meant to her. So she focused on the easier parts.

They talked through all the details they could think of from the kidnapping and Alistair encouraged her to write them down and add to them if anything else surfaced. Her diary had become a dissection of the events of that month. They had begun talking about Kirkwall, tentatively, safely, focusing on what happened before Anders intervened and made everything go right to the Void. Alistair felt it would be crucial for him to understand all the events that led up to it and what Hawke's role had been and why she'd made the decisions she'd made. Some part of her was sure there would be judgment at the end of these discussions, but there never was. Alistair claimed he understood and that he wasn't sure that he would have done anything differently in her stead. She knew that wasn't true, though. Alistair was far nobler than she was. He was more honest, more forthright, more worthy. For all of Hawke's attempts to keep the peace, she was not what most people would call a "good person". Good people didn't often survive the kind of life she'd had. Good people became victims more often than not and she had people to protect. She couldn't afford to be a good person most of the time. And after enough years of that she discovered that she was sometimes simply _unwilling_ to be a good person. Some people just didn't deserve it.

They were making their way into the port of Rialto city as they were going over details and bits of information once again. It seemed that every time Hawke recounted something, Alistair took a different tact and focused on a different portion of the questioning. It was a little like being interrogated by Aveline. Hawke was sure there was a specific thing he was looking for here and that he was just finding his way around to it.

"Alistair, I get the impression that you're… preparing for something. Do you mind telling me what that is?"

Alistair smiled at her with a guilty sort of slant to his features. "Figured that out, huh? Well, I assume that once we're back in Denerim there is going to be some sort of discussion with the Chantry. I'd prefer it if I was able to deal with the Grand Cleric on my own, but I know that may not be the case."

Hawke tensed at the thought of having to face any of the officials from the Chantry "You really think they'll bring me in for questioning?"

Alistair shrugged "I think it would be wise to assume so, at least. The Divine seemed to think Kirkwall warranted having one of her envoys present and they wasted no time in setting a bounty on you. I don't think either of us should expect that they'll simply let it go. You're too well known to keep you hidden in Denerim unless you go hide out at a tavern the whole time."

"Well then why don't I go hide at a tavern? I certainly don't want you getting any more mixed into all of my issues, Alistair. You've done… far more than I ever expected already."

Alistair's jaw clenched as he stood and came around the desk they'd been sitting at. Leaning against it, he looked stiff, annoyed. "Marian, I realize that you are stubborn and independent and that you can take care of yourself. But you are also incredibly _stupid_ if you think I'm going to throw you to the wolves."

Hawke blinked up at him. That certainly was not the response she'd been expecting. "I… I never said you'd do that, Alistair, just that you didn't have to put yourself – your country – in harm's way for me."

Alistair sighed again, and grabbed her hand, pulling her to her feet "For a woman as intelligent as you clearly are, you are stunningly dense sometimes." Alistair cupped her face in both hands and leaned in closer, noses nearly touching, "If you accept nothing else before we get to Denerim you must accept this: I'm doing this because I… care about you, and because if you are in harm's way then so am I." He hadn't yet said that he loved her. He was sure it was obvious in everything he did, every gesture and expression. But he hadn't said it. He'd simply begun showing in every way he could without actually kissing her and spilling forth confessions, which he sort of desperately wanted to do. Especially kissing her.

They simply stood there, Hawke's hands at Alistair's waist, his hands cupping her cheeks, staring at each other as if they could communicate through that look alone. And perhaps they did. Hawke found herself closing her eyes and stepping in to the circle of his arms, resting her head against his chest, even as something in her head rebelled at the idea of being weak and seeking comfort she didn't think she'd earned.

She must have scoffed aloud. Alistair's hands continued making circles on her back, but he pulled his chin away from the top of her head "What is it?"

Hawke shook her head "Some days it feels like I've got my own personal version of Justice in my head, arguing with me. " At his concerned look she smiled up at him "It's fine. I'm just… conflicted. As usual, right?"

The concerned look on his face did not go away at her lame assurance. "You're conflicted about me?"

Hawke placed her hands against his chest. "No. I'm conflicted about myself. What I … deserve."

"Ah, well then," Alistair smiled back at her, closing his arms around her again "then why don't you just stop thinking about it and rely on me to decide what you deserve? It's part of my job, you know, making decisions, meeting out rewards and punishments. I'm pretty good at it, too. I have a crown and everything."

Hawke chuckled "I'll try, Kingy."

"That's all I ask, Marian." Alistair placed a kiss on the top of her head and then leaned his cheek there as they stood, rocking slightly in their embrace. Hawke realized just how familiar his arms had become in such a short time. While hugging him or touching him still sent a quick thrill through her, a fluttering in her stomach, a tightness in her chest, it was accompanied by a strong sense of rightness. A bang on the door from a guardsmen letting them know that they were in-port pulled them apart from each other, but only reluctantly. Knowing the ease with which they reached for each other was reassurance enough that she wasn't fooling herself about how she felt; She knew that this was enough for now.

"I have a sick pup to check on. I'm going to very nicely ask Fenris to go into the city to get some more herbs for me and see if anyone in the city might know a bit more about settling the stomachs of Mabari." Hawke shook her head "Not that I think they really will. In Llomerryn it took longer to explain just what a Mabari was than I would have liked. It's no wonder nothing we got actually works. And the herbs I know work seem to be called different things."

Alistair leaned his forehead to hers for a moment and then breathed out, clasping her shoulders. "Alright. I don't think we'll need to wait in port for long. I'm sure Zevran will find us soon enough. If he gets here by tonight we'll leave on the morning tide."

…

It was several hours later that Hawke and Alistair sat on the deck together, leaned back against a few crates with a deck of cards between them. Noodle was curled at Hawke's side, head in her lap. His pitiful whining had eased finally as he dozed, but he was still clearly an unhappy dog. Just about everyone on the ship had attempted to give Hawke advice on what to do to settle his stomach – everything from peppermint and ginger teas to extensive massages of his belly and the tips of his ears. While most of those suggestions were scoffed at openly, as the poor beast continued to suffer, Hawke had tried everything in private, secretly hoping that some sort of Ferelden folk cure was indeed the thing she needed to do – but nothing had worked. The marketplace in Llomeryn hadn't had the herbs she needed to concoct the cure they'd found along the way and she desperately hoped that Fenris would be able to procure the last few items, using some sort of inherent "give me what I want" look that he seemed to have when her own powers of persuasion failed.

"So, explain this to me again – the whole point of this game is to cheat?"

Hawke snickered quietly "Sort of. The point of the game is to win. And it's very common to cheat while playing. So in order to win, you should know how to cheat. And if you catch someone else cheating, their hand is forfeit."

"And you play this a lot?" Alistair looked at her suspiciously, watching her hands as she dealt the cards but honestly, he couldn't tell if she did anything devious or not.

Hawke smiled at him again as she arranged her hand "Actually, not for a while. Since people expect cheating in Wicked Grace it's more for fun among friends. I play Diamondback more often since you can actually make some coin."

"And do you cheat in Diamondback?"

"Not always." Hawke made a show of studying her cards, looking as if she were deep in concentration.

Alistair narrowed his eyes at her, clearly not buying her act of concentration.

They played several hands and Hawke easily beat him each time, but he never caught her doing anything out of the ordinary. "I can't catch you cheating, what are you doing?"

"I'm cheating in the best way possible, Alistair." Hawke grinned at him "I'm not cheating at all. You're so wrapped up in watching me for slips you aren't playing the game."

"Would you actually tell me if you were cheating, though?" Alistair's voice was filled with humorous suspicion. Truthfully, he'd been watching her hands like a mabari watches a kitchen the whole time they'd been playing, but it was more so that he didn't let himself start watching other things, like her eyes or her lips, or the flaps of her shift where the breeze occasionally lifted and separated them. His cards had been a distant after thought. Her hands weren't much better of a distraction though. She had a strange, easy dexterity in everything she did and watching her hands as she shuffled and dealt only lead him to thoughts of having those hands do other, very dexterous things.

"For the purposes of teaching you the game, yes, I would tell you. Wicked Grace is one of the few card games where it's allowable to accost your opponents as well." At Alistair's amused look, she continued "If I were to see you palming a card, I could reach across and grab your wrist, revealing the move. You'd lose the hand and no one would draw blades over it. Do that in a game of diamondback when you aren't playing among friends and you're liable to leave something more significant than coin on the table."

As Hawke began gathering the guards to shuffle again, Alistair leaned back on his hands and stretched his legs out in front of him. "So you're saying you have played cards with people who would chop off bits if you so much as touched them?"

Hawke shrugged "If the stakes are high enough and the people are mean enough – sure."

Catching the cards that expertly slid to a stop in front of him, Alistair picked up his hand and began rearranging his cards. "And how about you? Have you ever gotten violent over a card game?"

"Once. One of the dockworkers in Kirkwall was a little bit better of a player than I was expecting and I lost a few hands and a significant amount of coin to him. I was still trying to fund the Deep Roads expedition at the time and it was a big chunk of money to me. I tried to bow out of the game and cut my losses but this guy… I guess he was new in town, had no idea who I was and just assumed I was some silly little girl he could push around. He insisted I could regain my coin in other ways, I declined, and he pushed it."

Alistair leaned forward, intrigued despite the fact that he could easily imagine a dozen different things she could have done "Well? What did you do?"

Hawke shook her head "I don't think you want to know, Alistair. I'm… not a very nice person."

Realizing that he'd stumbled onto something unintentionally, and cursing himself for the sudden turn in her demeanor, which had been rather playful up until that point, Alistair tried to salvage it "It doesn't seem to me that being nice in that situation would have been appropriate anyway."

Hawke was eyeing him in that weighing way, that way that Alistair always felt could lead to knowing more or to her opening up and telling him something, but she shrugged instead, saying noncommittally "Maybe."

They played the rest of that hand in silence. Alistair wondered if there would continue to be these conversational swamps with her and where exactly they were coming from. He had no illusions that she had lived a life of Andrastian ideals. He'd seen her fight and kill and seen that there was no remorse in it. If he were really truthful with himself he'd have to admit that her skills in battle were extremely appealing. She made him understand Zevran's repeated claims about how appealing "goddesses of battle" were. Thinking about it made him a little uncomfortable. Not because she was who she was – but because it made him examine exactly who he had become since being crowned. Alistair sighed to himself, realizing that he probably had just as many conversational swamps as she did – they just hadn't gone traipsing through them yet.

He didn't realize that anyone had boarded the ship until he noticed that Hawke had shifted her legs slightly and was inching out the dagger she kept in her boot as she watched over his shoulder. Noodle had also raised his head, though he didn't bark or growl. The poor mabari was still far too ill feeling for that. Glancing around, he saw a slight figure in a full cloak, hood up and obscuring their face standing at the top of the gangplank.

"There is no need to skewer me where I stand, my Champion. I assure you, I was invited." Came Zevran's drawl as he pushed back his hood.

The intervening years had changed him little, as far as Alistair could tell. He hadn't seemed to age much, though his skin was slightly darker than it had been when he'd seen him last. He also wore dark black leather armor that stank like those ridiculous boots Solona had given him – it smelled like all Leather smells just more… pungent. Alistair began to rise, but Zevran sauntered toward them and took a seat, completing the circle. Looking down quizzically at the cards, he quirked an eyebrow at Alistair "Wicked Grace? I didn't think you were the type, Alistair."

"Hawke has been trying to teach me, though I'm apparently terrible at it."

"Well it takes many years to master, I'm afraid." As Zevran pulled off his gloves he finally addressed Hawke, "Deal me in?"

Hawke didn't reply, and Alistair saw that her demeanor had changed yet again. She was smiling in that benign, open way that he had come to learn meant that she was feeling anything other than benign or open, but there was something about the way she looked at Zevran that seemed… off. She simply inclined her head and reshuffled, dealing out stacks of cards for all three of them.

As they each took up their hand Zevran kept up a steady stream of conversation, but never actually said why he was in Rialto instead of Antiva City and why he wanted to accompany them to Denerim. He was babbling about the weather and the sea air and his love of fish stew. Alistair wasn't sure if it was just his imagination or not, but the game seemed to take on a completely different tenor and while Hawke didn't seem any more tense or concerned than she had been when it had been just the two of them, he couldn't shake the feeling that there was some kind of undercurrent that he was missing going on between the two rogues.

Noodle seemed to sense the tension, though, and had shifted so that he was located in front of Hawke, causing her to have to play around his massive head.

"I think your Mabari is trying to prevent me from seeing your cards." Zevran said with an amused little smirk.

"Noodle knows better than that." Hawke replied, voice untroubled and light.

Zevran kicked back his head and laughed "Your mabari is named Noodle? Truly?" The huge beast looked directly at Zevran then, and grumbled, low in its chest. "I meant no offense, noble beast. I have just become accustomed to mabaris with ridiculously pompous or historical names. Fereldens seem obsessed with naming their pets after their heroes."

"I realize you aren't native and so probably don't realize this…Mabari aren't really pets. And I also think a Mabari named "Shartan" would have raised more than a few eyebrows." Hawke smirked at Zevran as she replied.

He chuckled "True enough, my dear, though I doubt many elves have mabaris among them."

Hawke nodded at him. "Ah, so only elves can admire Shartan. I see. I appreciate you disabusing me of the notion that a human may find worth among the several other races that comprise Ferelden. Nearly as much as I would appreciate you putting back the last two cards you palmed from the discard pile."

Alistair was surprised to see that Zevran almost sheepishly laid out all his cards and there were indeed two extras in his hand. "You have bested me, my dear. Though I will claim that I was distracted by the presence of your fearsome warhound in order to save face, yes?"

"As you wish," Hawke shrugged as she gathered up the cards and tucked them into a pocket. "I'm going to see if Fenris is near the docks. Noodle, stay here with Alistair, okay?"

Noodle grumbled as she rose and she stopped to scratch at his ears before heading away. Alistair caught the eye of a guard and gestured toward Hawke as she descended the gangplank and the guard quickly followed behind her.

Zevran and Alistair both watched her leave. "I have a feeling your friend does not like me very much, Alistair. I do not remember her being quite so put out by my presence before. I wonder, what horrible things have you told her about me to warrant such an icy reception?"

Alistair shrugged "Nothing at all, honestly. I was going to ask you what that was all about. Though you did refer to her Mabari as a pet – which they are not – and implied that someone she holds in high regard is someone her race isn't connected to in any way."

"Now that was just seeing how far I could push and what the reaction may be. I was referring to everything before that."

Alistair sighed "She's… been through a lot. Let's go talk."

Zevran's eyebrows rose at that, but he simply followed the King into his cabin.

Alistair explained and Zevran, for once, simply listened. He shared the basic outline of what happened with the kidnapping and how the Viscountess had come to be in Rivain in the first place. It was generally known that she had left, but the various rumors surrounding why were extremely varied. The most fanciful cited a burning need to join the Qun, the pedestrian tended to imply that she was with child. He did let Alistair know, however, that most of the whisperings about the Champion's involvement in the destruction of the Chantry in Kirkwall were convinced that she was involved with the mage who caused the explosion and most imply that the involvement was more than friendship.

Alistair shook his head "Why is that always the assumption? They said the same thing after she killed the Arishok – that she was some sort of spurned lover. I can tell you beyond a doubt that there was nothing going on between her and Anders beyond a very broken, one sided friendship."

"I have no doubt of it, my king, but you should be aware of what is being said nonetheless, yes? I am sure those rumors and probably many more have made their way back to the Divine at this point." Zevran paused for a moment "Might I ask what your plans are when you reach Denerim? Why have you come to the rescue of our beautiful Viscountess and what do you hope to gain by taking her back with you to your palace? She hardly seems the damsel in distress type, if you don't mind my saying so." Zevran smirked at him as he finished.

This wasn't exactly a conversation that Alistair wanted to have with Zevran. But he chose to be honest nonetheless, knowing that trying to lie would only lead to more questions. "I care about her, deeply, Zevran. And I believe she feels the same for me. I would see her safe, even if it means she chooses not to stay with me."

"But it is your hope that staying with you is exactly what she will do." Zevran stated.

"Yes, of course."

"As your… mistress? Surely not your wife."

Alistair was prepared for this line of questioning but it didn't stop his ire from rising "And why not my wife?"

Zevran laughed "You have changed a great deal, Alistair. There was a time when you would not have even deigned to sleep in the same camp with a cold blooded killer – not without a great deal of argument if I remember correctly – and now you seek one out for your bed and to share your crown?"

Alistair shook his head "She's not a cold blooded killer, Zevran. And you'll remember that she didn't try to kill me the first time I met her, unlike you."

"True, but killing you from your bed would have been preferable – for several reasons." Zevran allowed the lecherous implications to play out for a moment to see what reaction he could get, but Alistair had long grown immune to that particular type of prodding from the elf.

"She's not an assassin, Zevran."

"No, she is not. She is worse and more dangerous. She does not kill by contract or for money, she kills for personal reasons. If she chose to see you dead, your guards would not be able to stop her. I have learned enough of her from seeing her fight my own former guildmates and from Isabela to know that she would not hesitate to cut down anyone in her path should she decide she had a reason to."

"And why are you telling me this? You seriously think she's going to try to kill me? She could have done that a hundred times over by now if that was her goal. In Kirkwall alone there were many opportunities without my guards around and even in the midst of fights when she could have denied any wrong doing at all."

"I tell you this, your majesty, because if you truly want to have her as yours – your mistress, your wife, or even as a dear friend – you must acknowledge the truth of what and who she is. Remember I met her before you did. I am well aware of who she is - perhaps more aware than you from what you've said."

Alistair sighed and stood "Look, I trust her. I trust her as much as I trusted Solona. You weren't one of those making the claims, but I can't count the number of times during the blight I was pulled aside by well-meaning people who poured poison in my ear about the so called obvious threat of trusting a mage."

Zevran had stiffened at the mention of Solona's name and Alistair almost felt sorry that he'd mentioned her at all. But it was important to him that Zevran did not continue this baseless line of questioning. He needed to make it clear that Hawke at this point was more of a threat to herself than to anyone on this ship. The elf remained quiet as Alistair stopped his pacing and turned more fully toward him.

"Look, I would like you to try to talk to her as we head to Amaranthine. She's given me details of the kidnapping and of what's happened in Kirkwall, but I've questioned her about it so many times that I'm sure we're both losing the details. It's very important to her that she find the man who was obviously in charge there. We caught only a glimpse of him, but from the way he dispatched the guards he is surely well trained. And from what Hawke has told me of him and the way he spoke to her, I can't shake the feeling that there is more to this person, certainly more to his motivations than simply snatching someone for a ransom. Or… well it _became_ more. "

Zevran looked intrigued by that "And why do you say that?"

Alistair sighed and leaned against the desk, crossing his arms. "I just have my reasons. I don't want to say anything in case I'm simply overreacting. I just… would you just talk to her?"

Zevran shook his head "Of course, Alistair. But, I must ask - are you sure you would not be happier with some plump, bossomy Bann's daughter? It would be far less complicated and you wouldn't have to concern yourself with her past beyond worrying that she got herself with a stable boy's get before you had your chance."

Alistair shook his head, smiling "Zevran, you're beginning to sound like one of my advisors."

He laughed at that as he rose "You wound me, my king! Please, if there is a bed and a place to wash, lead me to it. I will speak to your lady when the moment presents itself."

As they exited his cabin, Alistair almost immediately ran into Noodle, who was wiggling his whole body and wuffling happily at the site of him. Scratching the Mabari behind the ears, Alistair glanced over to where Hawke and Fenris were sitting together on a crate, "Someone is feeling better, I see."

Hawke smiled "Thanks to Fenris, it seems we finally found something that works." Noodle responded by running off down the length of the ship, stopping to get affection and attention from every guard and crewman he passed. "He's going to be a menace the rest of the trip, you know. He has a lot of seasick time to make up for."

Fenris slung his arm across Hawk'e shoulder and she slid hers around his waist, hand grasping his side in a sort of one armed hug before as they turned their heads toward each other and fell into a nearly whispered conversation, completely ignoring Alistair and Zevran.

The next two days went similarly. Noodle tore up and down the ship like a puppy whenever he wasn't rolling around on his back sunning his belly. Fenris and Hawke were often on the main deck of the ship, but nearly always in each other's company, whether they were sparring with Fenris barking orders at her about her form and her strength and how she was doing everything wrong as if she were a recalcitrant squire, or they were simply standing shoulder to shoulder at the rail. If Alistair didn't know otherwise the view of the two of them so close, so clearly focused only on each other might have appeared as two lovers. Hawke had continued to talk to him, and they occasionally played games of cards but there were none of the causal brushes, the quiet moments when he would catch her looking at him. Alistair attempted to teach her chess, but she had no patience for it. Even after explaining that it was a game of strategic actions that could simulate war, she argued with him over seemingly pointless things – Why can't the rook move diagonally? Why is the King the most important piece and not the Queen? Why does taking the King end the game instead of the game ending when the board is cleared of the opponent's pieces? "Because that's just how it works" was never a good enough answer for her and they soon went back to cards. The mixture of skill and chance was much more to Hawke's liking and it seemed easier for her to talk while they stayed occupied with the cards.

Today they sat together across a narrow table in his cabin, playing Diamondback. "So, have you spoken to Zevran at all?" Alistair tried to sound like he was just making conversation, and failed miserably.

"You mean, have I consented to his interrogations yet?" She cut her eyes up at him from her cards, a smile playing at the corners of her mouth. "No, I haven't. Though he certainly is persistent. He showed up at the door of my cabin last night with a bottle of wine. He didn't realize Fenris was still sleeping in there though so was greeted by a glowering Mabari and a glowering elf and wisely decided not to press his case."

Alistair chuckled at that and decided to change the subject "How are you sleeping, by the way? You don't seem as exhausted."

Hawke shrugged "It's better, I think. I was thinking of letting Fenris move back into his own cabin. He doesn't sleep well in the room with me. I don't know if I move around too much or if he's just on edge, not being alone. It's not fair to him to keep forcing him to watch over me."

"Do you think you'll be okay by yourself?"

"I'm going to have to get used to it sometime, Alistair. I can't have someone watch over me while I sleep for the rest of my life. No more waking up in the dark sure I'm back in that room. At least not for the last week."

That was the first time that she'd admitted out loud what some of her sleeping issues had been. Maybe she was actually getting better. And maybe it was simply stubborn bravado. "I'll put a guard on your door at night. They've already been asking me why I haven't done it before."

Hawke laughed "The guards are requesting to protect me now? That's unexpected."

Alistair smiled at her "They like you."

"They like keeping their king happy. I don't think it has anything to do with me at all." Her tone was dismissive, but she was smiling at him playfully.

They sat smiling at each other, knees nearly touching under the narrow table they'd been playing at. It was one of those moments that was simply lovely just as it was, perfect in that balance between what was and what could be, like a held breath. And it could unravel in all sorts of directions.

Zevran, unfortunately, chose the path before Alistair could, entering without knocking. Hawke's smile did not fall from her face, but the tenor of it changed to something more merely polite. "Ah, I was hoping to find you here, my Champion. Would you mind talking to me a bit about this mystery man Alistair mentioned to me?"

Apparently Zevran's new tact was to corner her with Alistair in the room where she may be less likely to dismiss his questions. "What would you like to know?" Hawke unceremoniously tossed down her cards and crossed her legs, leaning back in her chair and giving Zevran a look of completely sarcastic rapt attention.

Zevran smirked at her. "Well, anything at all that you can tell me. Alistair assured me that the man was very skilled with a blade from what little he saw. Would you agree?"

Hawke shrugged at him "I never saw him fight. With the fighting in the hall I saw that he had sheaths on his back that were either part of his vest or very well hidden to blend in. But the blades were blackened, only the hilts had any hint of a metal sheen. I had the sense that… " Here she took a breath, looking at Zevran for a moment before letting it out and then shaking her head slightly, "He was just dangerous. That was obvious."

Zevran cocked an eye brow at that "Interesting. And when he spoke to you, he never used a weapon?"

"Unless you count colorful turns of phrase and his hands as weapons, no." Hawke's fragile veneer of impassivity was waning and her responses were becoming more tightly clipped. Zevran pretended he didn't notice and continued his questions.

"And what sort of things did he question you about?"

"Everything. Sometimes it was my family, sometimes it was Alistair, sometimes it was Ferelden in general or Kirkwall in general. Still other times he simply talked about random things like I was there for tea and we were chatting." Hawke looked down at her hands as they rested in her lap. "But I think calling it questioning is the wrong term. He already knew everything he wanted to know. He was just… letting me know that he knew."

Alistair didn't like the sound of that at all. He and Hawke hadn't discussed in any detail what had happened with the one she called "The Punching Man" – he just knew that he'd talked to her a great deal. He thought that perhaps the man had been trying to get information from her but hearing the way she described it, it seemed more like he was just toying with her.

Zevran looked at Hawke thoughtfully "Alistair has described the man, but he did not get a very good look. How would you describe him?"

"Human, maybe approaching his middle years – somewhere in his mid-thirties perhaps, older than me but he was very fit. He was tall, not as tall as Alistair, but close. About half as broad with a slight build – I'd say he was a little broader in the shoulders than Fenris. His hair was a little shorter than yours, but a light brown color and pushed back from his forehead, slicked back a bit. His eyes were dark, very dark, with only the slightest hint of brown to them, though it could have been the poor light."

Hawke looked down at her hands as she talked, but her eyes were focused far away, remembering. "He had a light scar – either well healed or very old – that fell just below his ear and canted along his throat on his left side. A thin blade… a razor perhaps… a glancing blow, but it would have nearly taken his head off. No other blemishes, tattoos, or marks that I could see. He wore three rings on his right hand, all in gold metal. One was carved like a dragon's head with tiny emerald eyes. One was comprised of a large red stone – I don't think it was ruby – something denser, more opaque, cut into a broad square with a flat surface. The third was a simple band, very thin and he wore it on his pinky almost as if it wasn't meant for him and he was just wearing it. It seemed… sentimental."

"What makes you say that?" Zevran didn't seem surprised at all by anything she'd said but Alistair was vaguely stunned at the level of detail she was able to remember.

Hawke furrowed her brows and finally looked up at Zevran "The other two were status symbols of some kind. He wore them because they looked impressive. They were heavy and expensive. The third… it was like a ring a father would give a young girl or a poor man would give his wife. It was gold, but battered. With his other jewelry and the fine fabrics he wore – all obviously tailored just for him – it didn't fit. It reminded me of my… My mother, really."

Zevran nodded, indicating that she should go on. Hawke shook her head "When she was pregnant with my brother and sister, her hands would get swollen. But she didn't want to wear her wedding ring on a chain around her neck. So my father would wear it on his pinky, next to his own wedding band. It may not mean anything at all it's just… what it put me in mind of."

"And this man – how did he sound when he talked?"

"You mean his accent?"

"That, and his mode of speech. Was he educated?"

"He was very well spoken, but that doesn't mean anything. I saw him with notes and letters so I assume he could read. His accent was… frustrating. He seemed to have bits of every accent I've ever heard tucked into his speech. Sometimes he sounded Antivan, sometimes Orlesian. He never sounded Ferelden – that's about all I can say for sure."

"I think I may have a few ideas of where to start looking, or at least who to start asking questions of. I am… intrigued, to say the least."

Hawke smirked at him without a bit of humor in it "Well I'm glad I could provide you with some diversion." She rose to leave the room, nodding at Alistair as she went and Zevran simply stayed where he was. When the cabin door was closed, Alistair shook his head.

"Are you sure you didn't do something to cause her to react that way? She clearly dislikes you."

Zevran put up his hands in mock surrender and shrugged. "This time, I am at a complete loss. I had no idea that I had so thoroughly lost my charm." But his tone was not so easily disguised… not to Alistair. Zevran was a little stung by her reaction. Perhaps even more than a little.


	38. Chapter 38

It was a full day later when Zevran caught up with Hawke once again. They were still nearly a week out from Amaranthine, but had left anything resembling a coast well behind. Noodle was trailing after a few of the sailors he'd taken a shine to as Hawke looked on, a small smile on her face while she watched the Mabari alternate between adorable and troublesome depending on how exuberant he was feeling at the moment. Sitting on a barrel pulled up to a crate, Hawke had at least 1 dozen different blades laid out on a cloth over the top of her makeshift workspace with rags, a few flasks of oil, and multiple sharpening stones of various fineness arranged before her.

While Zevran looked on from the hallway shadows, Hawke had wiped down the blade she'd been sharpening and moved on to the next, examining the edge, dotting it with a spot of oil and beginning the slow, careful process of sharpening it without damaging or scratching the metal which would require additional buffing. The way she went about this whole process was clearly meditative and practiced for her and Zevran actually felt a little guilty interrupting. He knew what it was like to prepare your weapons, and Hawke had a collection of very finely crafted daggers and throwing knives, all of which had clearly been well cared for. It felt almost indecent watching her like this from a distance. As he approached, he spotted among the daggers the one he had given her. Sharper than it was the day he'd passed it to her and undamaged though it had surely seen use. She ignored him as he stood nearby, focusing only on the task at hand, though she of course knew he was there. He could see now that many of the daggers had been altered in some way, usually to their hilts. Obviously Hawke did not allow a blade not meant for her hand to deter her from wielding it and had gone about correcting the balance of many of them to suit her needs.

Rolling another barrel over closer to her, Zevran took a seat. After a moment he murmured "May I?" and Hawke, without looking up, nodded as she continued to sharpen the edge of the blade in her hand. Zevran reached out and picked up one of the throwing knives, testing its weight in his hand. It was slightly heavier than what he would typically use, meaning it would require more strength to throw effectively. But that also meant that it would bury deeper and fly farther. These knives were meant to kill and maim, not deter or merely annoy. Looking over the rest of what she had arrayed before her, he noted that none of the weapons were exactly the same. No matched pairs, nothing that was purchased or crafted for her specifically. These were finds, booty, gains from the deaths and misfortunes of others. To him this simply underscored the feeling he had that Alistair was somewhat unaware of just how truly dangerous Hawke was.

To Zevran personally, that kind of danger was not a problem. In fact, it was something he had a certain level of admiration for. She was no assassin – she didn't have that kind of training nor that kind of patience, but as a mercenary, she was far more disciplined than what he was accustomed to encountering. She skirted some line between professional and sell-sword that was difficult to pin down and that simply added to the potential danger of associating with her. For Zevran, it increased the appeal – but he was not your common man. Assassins could be expected – counted on – to behave a certain way. They were broken and reforged into something very specific that moved and acted and thought in very strict patterns. A Crow was as different from Hawke as a hot house rose was from a patch of wildflowers.

"Alistair tells me that this man you spoke to – the Punching Man – he may have been more than just professionally interested."

Hawke stopped sharpening her blade and peered up at him. "That really depends on what his profession is, doesn't it?"

Zevran shrugged "True, however I am fairly certain that you were dealing with a Crow – or perhaps a former Crow. The blackening of the blades and the way they were hidden in plain sight on his back are two strong indicators alone."

Hawke picked up a rag and began polishing it against the blade, checking the edge occasionally. "I know."

Zevran felt that suddenly Hawke's attitude toward him since he arrived on the ship made sense. She knew that the man who ordered her capture and toyed with her had been a Crow. Wisely that put all Crows in a place of suspicion – where they should be. His annoyance at her dislike dissipated and his esteem grew in equal measure.

Hawke continued, the first time she'd added anything without having to be specifically prompted. "He hinted at things that I think were about you. He… seemed to think I might have some kind of insight there."

Zevran was surprised, but didn't show it "Truly? What sort of things?"

Hawke sighed and put down the blade and the rag, crossing her arms over her chest as she turned more fully toward him. "He told me at first that he didn't understand what it was about Ferelden women or why someone would attach themselves to one. Later he said he thought he had it figured out. But he also made hints about Solona. I can only assume that he was talking about you. Your defection from the Crows and your alliance with the Hero of Ferelden would be common knowledge among your former crew, wouldn't they?"

Nodding slowly, Zevran thought about that for a moment. "Yes, I assume it would be known. But this man, you said he had no tattoos." He indicated his face and Hawke shook her head. "They may have been elsewhere on his body. Apprentices don't carry them but I would not expect an apprentice to be bold enough to carry out an operation like the one you and Alistair have described."

They both fell silent for a moment before Zevran spoke again "What do you think his intentions toward you were?"

While her arms were still crossed over her chest, Zevran saw that her fists bunched and her shoulders went tensed. Her facial expression did not change, however. "I don't know. At first, he hit me whenever he thought I needed it, dug his fingers into wounds, harassed me about everything he could think of, anything he thought would cause discomfort or guilt or just upset me in some way. But he always ensured he had an audience for that. He'd show up and beat me until I said what he wanted and then leave. That would be interspersed with the other men who would come to have their fun beating the helpless and drugged woman. Eventually though, he started coming to see me alone. And then he started seeing me alone more and more. I also noted that the number of visits from other men dropped considerably until he was the only one who showed up. He even started coming with them when they'd give me food, but he stayed in the background." Hawke's brow furrowed "Eventually it was more like… friendly visits almost. And he started touching me, sitting very close, crouched in front of me where I was tied on the floor."

Zevran kept his face impassive but knew that this was what Alistair had been hinting at. Surprised that she was suddenly talking to him and knowing that his next question may put her right back into her taciturn and annoyed stance, he paused but eventually asked. "Touching how? Did he take advantage of you in some way?"

Hawke quickly shook her head. "Either he or I would be dead if he'd tried." It easily could have sounded like a bit of bravado. But coming from her, it was truth, pure and simple.

"No, he… here… " Hawke scooted forward a bit. "I was tied, ankle, knee, wrist, and throat. I was also gagged. He never took out the gag when he was alone. He didn't want or need me to answer him. But he would pace around and talk and then crouch down in front of me and… " Hawke raised a hand tentatively, a question in her eyes, and Zevran nodded. She brought her hand forward and very gently brushed his hair back from his face and then brought the backs of her fingers down his cheek and down around his chin, running the back of one finger just under his bottom lip. Zevran, who hadn't been touched by anyone other than a random whore in years nearly shuddered. It was the kind of touch that spoke of affection and tenderness. Coupled with a certain expression it could also be lust. "He would do that. Or touch my hands, "Hawke demonstrated, taking Zevran's hands in hers and caressing his knuckles with her thumbs, tracing each bump and valley.

She scooted away again "I kept expecting him to follow them up with a smack, a punch, another dig into my damaged shoulder, but he never did. It made no sense. He also never did it in front of anyone. If he came in with people, he stood back from me unless it was to physically hurt me. If he came in alone, he would get close. It was obviously his… secret."

Zevran didn't bother to hide the worry from his expression. A renegade Crow who had succeeded where he had only just managed not to fail in breaking away from his keepers. One who wasn't on the run, but carrying out daring jobs – perhaps of his own making. It was not a pleasant thought and not one he looked forward to sharing with Alistair. The king's association with Hawke got more and more misguided and dangerous by the minute. Having this Punching Man – a ridiculous name for him, really – after her, Hawke was a threat to Alistair. She must know that, Zevran was sure of it. She was far too savvy not to know. But his options were limited. Zevran had promised Solona that he would look after the king but that was a rather vague promise. Solona would have argued and fought with him but then ultimately done whatever would have made Alistair happy. Zevran, on the other hand, could only see this playing out one way with the information he currently had and he would not allow the king to throw himself in front of Hawke, between her and all the dangers she dragged with her. She was good fun – exactly the sort of woman he would have perused himself years ago. But not the sort of woman Alistair had any idea what he was doing with.

"You were with my cousin?" Zevran was pulled out his thoughts by the quiet question. Hawke was looking at him askance, the question nearly muttered as if she were reluctant to really know the answer.

Zevran nodded, "I was. She forced me to stay and fight at the gates instead of following her up to the roof of Fort Drakon to fight the archdemon. And I think that may be the only thing I could never forgive her for."

Hawke nodded "I never met her. Alistair has filled in some things for me. My mother only remembered her as a very small child. But I… " Hawke paused, swallowing hard and Zevran realized she was choking back some emotion suddenly. "Was she happy? I know she wasn't happy in the Circle. But… after that, with the Wardens? She fought and she died and there was chaos and death around her always but, was she ever happy?" Hawke looked up at him then, eyes wide with the desperation of her question. For the first time Zevran realized just how alike these cousins might be after all. He knew that they had been related but he'd never really thought about it. They looked nothing alike, did not share characteristics of speech or mannerisms. But he'd seen that exact look on Solona's face before. Sometimes when they took watch together or they were alone in his tent and she'd let down her guard and really talk to him she would have that expression. And he knew that Hawke wasn't asking about Solona – she was asking about herself. Could she be happy? Could there ever be a moment of peace?

"Yes, she was happy sometimes. Happier than any sane person should have been, really, given the circumstances." Zevran smiled at her, but it was a sad smile, filled with grief that he had never quite shaken off and loss that would never really leave him.

She nodded at him then and looked back to her daggers though she didn't pick any of them up.

After a moment, Zevran sat forward "You know, it is intriguing to me that two different members of the Amell family have managed to have such an impact on Alistair - for very different reasons, of course." He paused as she looked at him and he smiled, taking on a lighthearted tone and his usual air of lasciviousness "She made him a king and you, may help make him a man, my pet."

The color drained from Hawke's face and before he could actually react, the barrel was out from under him, he crashed heavily into the deck and Hawke's knees were pinning down his arms at the elbows as a dagger twisted into the soft flesh just under his chin. She looked feral, lips pulled back in a grimace, eyes blazing with an animal rage.

Almost immediately she was being hauled off of him, four guards who had been wandering nearby rushing in and peeling her back as she kicked out at him and pulled against their hands on her arms. She was snarling at him "Why did you say that?" over and over again as he pulled himself to his feet and dabbed lightly at the small wound the point of her dagger had left in his neck. Fenris was soon there, pushing himself between Hawke and the guards who held her, pushing them away from her as he tried to put himself directly in the eye line between her and Zevran. She was still thrumming like a bowstring, obviously unhinged, but the sight of Fenris calmed her some and she stopped struggling. She allowed herself to be lead to her cabin, past a questioning Alistair whose only answer was in the form of a quick head shake directed his way by Fenris.

…..

Alistair went around to the guards to ask what had happened and he got the same answer from all of them. Hawke had attacked Zevran, seemingly unprovoked. Alistair caught Zevran's eye and jerked his head toward his cabin. Sighing heavily, he followed Alistair. He would not relish telling the king that his love interest was clearly deranged. Good reasons or not, she was unhinged.

Alistair handed Zevran a poultice and some cloths to take care of his wound, a slow trickle of blood snaking down his throat, and sat on the edge of his desk, looming over the much smaller man. "Talk," he barked out. "There is more to this and you will tell me."

Zevran dutifully recounted the entire conversation to Alistair, who just ended up looking confused. "That's it? You're sure?" When Zevran simply nodded, Alistair began to pace "that can't be it. There's something you missed."

"Alistair, consider for a moment the possibilities. With all that she has been through, is it not possible that she is simply… not all there?"

Alistair scowled at him, but they were both distracted by the noises coming from outside the cabin. Alistair groaned as he threw open the door to see Hawke trying to get past Fenris and Fenris doing his best to keep all vulnerable parts of his body out of her grasp as he kept her away from the cabin door.

Hawke, eyes still blazing, her color high, and her hands fisted caught sight of Zevran peering around Alistair's shoulder. "YOU!" she bellowed "You are going to answer my questions."

Zevran stepped around Alistair "Of course, my dear. But you will do me the courtesy of doing it without any of your weapons nearby."

Hawke scoffed at him "I don't need a dagger to kill you where you stand, you imperious little shit."

Alistair stepped between them "Whoa! Whoa! Everyone calm down. If you can all make your way back into my cabin where we can sit and discuss this, I would greatly appreciate it." Alistair used that tone that he had cultivated at court. It sounded polite and unassuming at first, but it carried the weight of an order.

They all shuffled back into the cabin, Zevran immediately taking a chair and lazing into it, leg slug over an arm in a position he liked to use to affect an air of utter relaxation. Fenris came in ahead of Hawke and stood with his back to her, blocking her from coming further into the room once the door was closed behind her.

"Now", Alistair began "What in the name of the Maker is going on?" He cast is eyes to each of the three characters in his room, seeing nonchalance, apprehension, and anger.

Fenris, wisely, jumped in first. "Something that Zevran said was very nearly," Hawke cut him off "No, EXACTLY. IT WAS EXACTLY-" Fenris glared at her to shut her up and she rolled her eyes at him and waved impatiently for him to carry on. "Something that Zevran said was something that the man who took Hawke said. Apparently the tone was very similar as well."

Zevran began rerunning the conversation in his mind trying to think of what it might be.

Alistair shook his head as if it hurt him to do so "Wait – so you nearly skewered Zevran with a dagger because something he said was something that the other man had said? The … words were similar?"

Hawke shot Alistair a look "Thank you for making me sound completely insane, Alistair. I didn't exactly attack him because he said the word "pillow" or "milk" or something."

"My pet?" Zevran ventured and Hawke bristled and glowered at him again.

"Yes. You called me "my pet". The Punching Man called me that nearly incessantly. Why did you say that? Is it a Crow thing? Is it Antivan? Did you know this man? Is that why you walk like him? Move like him? Even your Maker damned hands are the same." She was pacing and must have realized she looked a little crazed. Taking a deep breath and letting it out loudly she closed her eyes for a moment. "I just want to know why you said that."

Zevran shrugged, honestly feeling at a loss, but also seeing that he had clearly poorly estimated how damaged, upset, and ill at ease Hawke truly was for her to have reacted that way to such a simple phrase. It also made perfect sense to him. She got away, she fought for her life. She was tortured by people who tried to break her and failed. Her one consolation in all of that was that she might find and exact some type of retribution on the man she saw as the one responsible. Zevran understood revenge quite well. "It is somewhat common in Antiva, yes. Something you might call someone you are fond of without going as far as calling them your love. It's a silly term of endearment, really. Like Leilliana calling that nug "schmooples"", he explained as he looked at Alistair.

Hawke took a step toward Zevran and both Alistair and Fenris tensed and tried to block her path. Looking up between the both of them she let out a harsh bark of a laugh. "You two really do think I'm insane, don't you? That I'm just going to fly off in a rage at any moment. You're protecting a trained assassin from me. You realize that, right?" There was both astonishment and hurt in her voice.

Zevran couldn't help but smile at that. She had a point. But he also felt a bit guilty. He'd thought she was deranged himself just a short while ago. There were many kinds of madness, of course, and sometimes it was difficult to discern well placed rage from a fit of insanity. Instead of waiting for either of the men to come to their senses, Zevran stood and went to Hawke instead.

"I do not know exactly who this man is. But there is something familiar about everything you have told me. Perhaps he was an apprentice or in a foreign cell, but I may have crossed his path before. Besides, if another Crow has left and been far more successful at it than I have, I am sure that my contacts will have some information about it." Zevran raised both his hands, slowly, and placed them on her shoulders. Looking at her square in the face, his words carried the tone of a promise "I will look into this, and together we will find out who this man is. Then we will handle him. Until we do, no one on this ship will allow any harm to come to you, myself included."

Hawke stared at him impassively and he watched as a range of emotions seemed to flicker through her eyes, signaled only by tiny muscles tensing and relaxing around her eyes. Eventually she nodded and whispered "I'm sorry I almost stabbed you."

Zevran smiled at her "I'm sorry that you got that much of a drop on me. Truly, I am ashamed."

Inclining her head again, Hawke took a deep breath and turned from the room. Fenris looked after her with a worried expression and Alistair just looked miserable.

"Did I just completely screw that up?"

Fenris, never one to mince words simply stated, "Yes. We both did."

"She acts deranged and we should sit by and watch her wreak havoc?" Alistair sounded exasperated.

Fenris shot him a withering look "She acts like she was held against her will for nearly a month by strangers who beat her, tortured her, and twisted knives into every emotional wound she's gathered over her entire lifetime and I shouldn't have to tell _you _of all people that there are many to choose from." Turning more fully toward Alistair he shook his head "My advice to you is this – the next time you want to protect someone, choose her. I know I will."

Fenris stalked out of the cabin then, letting the door roughly slam behind him.

Alistair's face crumpled even. "Maker's balls I'm an idiot." He sank into a chair behind his desk and Zevran, never one for platitudes, simply rose and poured them both drinks. He was sure Alistair was going to want one before long and he was sure he was long overdue, his mind racing through possibilities and coming up with a very short and very uncomfortable list of faces from his past.

…..

Hawke stayed scarce that day except for unceremoniously dumping all of Fenris's things include the bed frame and mattress out of her room and into the narrow passageway. Fenris didn't even try to knock – Hawke was sure he simply knew better.

She sat in her cabin and stewed for the rest of the day and part of the night, until finally her annoyance and anger had subsided and she just started to feel like a jerk. Fenris and Alistair had only blocked her because she had proven that she was unstable at that moment. But it had hurt, having both of them jump in front of her like she was something dangerous. It felt like they were saying her anger was unjustified or wrong and she simply was not going to concede that to anyone. Because she wasn't wrong to feel it and she knew that not feeling it would be worse – not feeling it would mean that she would feel everything else. The fear, the guilt, the miles of failures and betrayals that had gotten her onto that ship with Isabela in the first place. Under the weight of all of that she _would_ go crazy. No, anger was better.

Fenris she could apologize to in time. He probably already understood. They had an emotional short hand at this point that allowed them to know what the other was about with just a look and sometimes without even that much. Alistair on the other hand… He was what was keeping her in her cabin. She wasn't sure he would understand at all, even if she could find a way to explain it. And at that moment she was still annoyed at him, even feeling foolish about it as she did. Watching him jump up to protect someone from her when all she'd intended to do was get closer to actually talk to Zevran was… painful. She deserved it, of course. She knew that. But it didn't stop it from hurting knowing that he thought she was that… dangerous. Maybe he was finally coming to his senses and realizing that they were a bad match. And that hurt even more – the fact that she knew she was bad for him. Knew it as sure as a sunrise, as sure as anything. He was such a font of goodness and rightness and courageousness that she could help but think that she would only be a corrupting influence in his life. That's all she'd ever been in anyone's life, including her own.

Realizing she was slipping into self-pity, she forced herself up off her bunk and out her door. She heard Noodle before she saw him, bounding down the narrow passageway and nearly knocking her over. He'd been spending most of his time out on the deck since they found some herbs that helped settle his stomach. She wasn't sure the sailors would want to part with him once they made port. She stooped to put her forehead against his and he panted happily up at her, wiggling until he could dart his head between her legs and lean his shoulders into her. It was what he'd done since he was a puppy. Her father called it "hugging" but it was more akin to burying himself beneath someone, seeking their comfort. She did something similar to her father when she was very young, hugging his legs and not letting go until he'd curved his upper body down around her, completely encasing her in his warmth and affection.

Finally she patted Noodle's back, signaling that she wanted to move and he reluctantly retreated, casting glances at her over his shoulder as she following him down the hall and out onto the deck. Some of the sailors and guards were on the deck, gathered around a few pockets of lantern-provided light, playing cards and talking. She kept to the shadows and silently made her way to Alistair's cabin. Cracking open the door and peering inside she saw that he was sitting at his desk, head pillowed in his arms. She couldn't immediately tell if he was awake or not, but decided to risk it anyway. Continuing to sneak, she slid open the door and slipped inside, shutting it again behind her. She crept up to the side of the desk and eased on to the edge beside him. After waiting a few breaths to see if he'd notice or not, she eventually reached out a hand and lightly brushed the back of his head.

Alistair leapt up and jumped back, grabbing for his sword, which wasn't currently on, and only after casting a confused look at where it was usually strapped to his hip did his head clear enough to really see her.

Letting out a huge breath he panted slightly "Hawke, you scared me half to death! Why would you sneak up on me like that?!"

Unable to help herself, and knowing it was probably cruel, she grinned at him. "I'm sorry, I didn't mean to scare you. I figured you heard me and were just playing dumb." It was a complete lie, but she didn't care just then. The awkward hello was taken care of.

Still making a show of getting is breathing under control, Alistair slumped back down in his chair.

"I'm sorry about earlier, Alistair. I'm sorry I attacked Zevran and I'm sorry you felt I was dangerous enough to have to intervene on his behalf. I truly was just trying to talk to him." She said this all in a rush, sure that if she paused or he interrupted she'd lose her nerve.

Instead of the contrite, accepting, or even annoyed faces she'd expected Alistair to make, the one he was contorting his face into currently was one of completely confusion. "What? You're… apologizing? To me? I … " He put his face in his hands, mumbling out the last few words "I am so utterly confused by you."

"Well, yes, of course I'm apologizing. It was my fault." She said it as matter of factly as she could, but it just seemed to confuse him more.

Shaking his head and looking back up at her he started, "Hawke – Marian… I'm the one who's sorry."

Hawke furrowed her eyebrows at him "Well now I am the one who's confused, Alistair. What the Maker are you talking about?"

"I… look… " He took her hand "I feel like I've been pushing you to put everything behind you too quickly. I shouldn't have assumed that you were okay with … everything. It was foolish on my part and I should have been looking out for you, not worrying about Zevran. Honestly, I'm still surprised you were able to ambush him at all. I'd have liked to have seen that."

"He just took me by surprise. I shouldn't have reacted that way."

"But I understand, Hawke. I do." He brushed his thumbs across the back of her hand. "And I want you to know that what Zevran said goes for me as well. We will find this man and we will deal with him. I promise you that."

Hawke just blinked down at him, somewhat stunned.

"What? Have I got drool on my face?"

"I just… I didn't know if you'd understand, Alistair."

"Well I'm not a _complete_ idiot. I know I make that difficult to see sometimes, but believe me – I've had a lot of idiocy beaten out of me at this point in my life. There isn't all that much left."

Despite herself, Hawke smiled at him. "You don't think I'm a terrible person who is going to ruin you in all ways?"

Seriously, Alistair replied "No, I don't. I never have and I doubt I ever will. You, like everyone else, are just going to have to learn that sometimes I _do_ know what's best for me. I don't need you to protect me, Hawke. Especially when what you're protecting me from is you." Standing, Alistair moved so that his could put his hands on her shoulders as he looked down at her. "Fenris said something that made me realize I don't know as much as I should about everything that's happened." Hawke began to say something but he shook his head and continued "I'm not saying you have to tell me everything – especially not right now. But just understand that there are a lot of questions I have about… a lot of things. And sometimes I'm going to make the wrong decision because I don't have all the facts."

Hawke thought about that for a moment, looking straight ahead into the broad expanse of his chest. Eventually she looked up at him "Okay. I understand. And… I want you to know. I just may not know how to tell you. So just… bear with me?"

Alistair nodded. "On one condition. No more faking it. If you aren't happy, don't smile at me. If you aren't feeling chatty, don't pretend that you are. I'd rather see the truth of your feelings than be left wondering what's real or not. I understand there is a certain level of that that makes it easier to deal with the world. Maker knows I do enough of it myself but… please… with me… just the truth, okay?"

Hawke just nodded and then leaned forward so her forehead touched his chest and he ran his hands up and down over her shoulders. She wasn't sure that she could actually manage just the truth all the time, even with one person. But for him, she'd try.

….

For the next two days, the travel slowed down and they were creeping along. The lull in the wind could not be helped or accounted for so they simply drifted, waiting in the oppressive heat that still plagued them in the waters between Amaranthine and Rivain. It was especially sticky given the lack of wind and everyone onboard felt the energy leave them. It was surprising then to step out on the deck to find Zevran and Hawke circling each other warily. Alistair had just come out of his cabin after changing shirts again that day, having already done so twice since that morning. While the wet shirts should have been somewhat cooling he found that they just felt like they were steaming, cooking him alive.

Zevran and Hawke both had ridiculous grins plastered on their faces and had gathered an appreciative crowd of both guards and sailors, happy for any distraction from what was turning into a very boring day. Neither of them carried weapons, so it seemed they were sparring in hand-to-hand combat. He'd seen Zevran fight that way on occasion when necessary, but it was still surprising to see these two people who had barely spoken to each other suddenly deciding that a friendly – well, he assumed it was friendly – sparring match was what they should be doing on a day like this when the heat would choke the breath out of your lungs.

Taking a place on a nearby crate, many of which had been pulled into a rough semi-circle from which to watch, Alistair found himself grinning at the proceedings. During the blight, when they made camp it was very common for some of them to break off and spar. It was a good way to pick up and hone skills as well as a way to exhaust themselves to ensure that they all actually slept. Without being completely tired to the core it was far too easy for his own mind to keep him awake with worry and the incessant chatter of the darkspawn in his mind and he found that Solona was the same.

While he still thought it was slightly crazy, fighting in this heat as recreation, there was one interesting side effect. Both of the combatants were in as little clothing as possible. Zevran was wearing just a light pair of pants in a dark blue color that were rolled up to hit just above his knees, no boots or hose, and no shirt. The waistband of the pants was darkened with sweat and he occasionally ran a thumb across his eyebrows to flick away the moisture that gathered there. Alistair caught more than one crewman eyeing the elf appreciatively in a manner that spoke of more than just admiration for his fighting abilities. Hawke was similarly barefoot and her customary short pants were rolled up even higher, hitting about the middle of her thigh, showing off her deceptively long, well-muscled legs and just a bit of skin that was paler than everything below. Her shirt was one of the thin, sleeveless tunics that Isabela favored, with laces up the sides. The cream colored material was soaked through with her sweat, making it nearly translucent. The only thing retaining her modesty was the thick breastband that could clearly be seen through the wet shirt. Nearly all of his guards and most of the sailors were watching her intently and if Alistair were honest with himself he was torn between feeling slightly protective of her – like he should run over with a blanket to hide her from their eyes – and vaguely proud in a very masculine, possessive way. Every one of them could look all they like, but he was the only one of them who could reach out and actually put his hands on her without losing significant bits of those hands.

Well, except for Fenris, who was also in attendance. But the kind of touching Alistair was thinking of was something he was sure Fenris wasn't interested in.

And watching her fight was something else. They were obviously just trying to grapple each other. There would be bloody noses, scrapes, and probably broken toes at this point were it a real fight of real skills. Alistair had a feeling this whole thing was as much for the crew's benefit as it was for their own. She and Zevran would come together, grappling at each other, moving and counter moving to get a hold or break holds over and over. Sometimes Hawke ended up on her back, pinned and others Zevran ended up pinned, but always they grinned at each other. Zevran was actually enjoying himself too, Alistair could tell. It had been a long time since he'd seen a genuine emotion on the elf's face and it was actually nice seeing it. Hawke was also smirking with a sort of gleefulness as well – an expression he first saw on her face in Kirkwall during that fight in Darktown. Any woman who could grin like a madwoman while fighting off waves of attackers was undeniably attractive to him.

While the fight was impressive in general, it was Hawke herself that had all of Alistair's attention. The way her thigh muscles flexed, and the way she used her hips and waist to pivot and change direction or for leverage was more than a little exciting. After a few minutes it almost felt indecent watching her like this when all he could think about was how it would feel to be the one she was grappling, wrapping her arms around, sliding up against.

After Hawke managed to grab Zevran's arm and, twisting her hip into him, flip him over her shoulder and onto his back, he dramatically screamed out "Mercy! Mistress, Mercy please!" which had everyone laughing, including Hawke. She helped him to his feet and they clapped each other on the shoulders, like any two soldiers after a fight. They both retired to crates where the conversations picked up. Alistair overheard several guards trying to goad each other into challenging Hawke to a fight, but none of them seemed willing to do it – out of fear of her prowess or simple bashfulness over touching her, it wasn't clear. Zevran took a long drink from a water skin and, passing it to Hawke, turned his eyes to Alistair.

"Your Majesty – it has been a long time since I have seen you fight. Even longer since I have seen you fight without weapons or armor. Would you be willing to entertain your men, and me as well of course, by indulging in some sparring?"

Zevran sounded mild, but Alistair was well acquainted with this particular way that Zevran had of asking for something. He knew that this was a challenge or, at the very least, the beginning of a long string of goading that he would either have to nip in the bud immediately or give in to.

Alistair shrugged at him "I could also entertain them by dancing the remigold or reciting some of Varric's tales," Alistair saw Hawke's eyes go wide at that but continued without commenting, "why would you choose sparring?"

Chuckling in that "oh you silly man, must I explain it to you?" manner he sometimes took on, Zevran explained. "Because, we already have a circle, there is an audience, and activities of a martial nature appeal to you. If we had practice weapons I might propose we use them, but alas, we do not. So… _manhandling_… "Zevran injected as much lasciviousness into his tone as he could at that, "it is."

That got some of the men on the deck tittering amongst themselves. Alistair sighed, he knew he was not getting out of this. So, instead of bothering to argue he just nodded and stood, stripping off his shirt and tossing it down on the crate he'd been sitting on. "Alright then, let's get this over with, elf." He bent to work off his boots and stockings and set them aside along with his Theirin house ring and his mother's amulet, which he still wore every day with the whoops and cheers of his guard and the sailors rising around him. Looking up and realizing that Zevran had not moved he put his hands on his hips, and adopted a rather petulant pose. "Are you really going to make me _ask_ you to spar?"

Zevran chuckled "Oh, did I say I would be sparring with you? No, your majesty – I am quite spent." Zevran reached out and yanked Hawke off of her crate by her wrist, causing her to stumble forward and nearly faceplant onto the deck before she got her footing. "I am sure that Hawke has plenty of energy left, however."

Hawke scowled back at Zevran but then looked at Alistair. And Alistair couldn't help but feel a slight rush as he saw her eyes rake over his body and the obvious deep breath she took as she did so. So he wasn't the only one bound to be distracted by factors other than the fight itself – good to know. Hawke shrugged and grinned at Alistair. "I'm not sure I can pull of a throw against you like I could against, Zevran – but I'm game if you are."

Alistair smirked back as he took a position at the other side of the makeshift ring "Oh I'm sure you'll figure something out."

Hawke winked at Alistair as she dropped down into a ready crouch "Go easy on me, your majesty – I'm delicate."

That caused Alistair to laugh and that's when she sprinted at him. The fighting between them went much the same as it had between Hawke and Zevran. While occasionally one would clearly outmatch the other, it was more often than not a battle of moves and counter-moves. The crowd of guards and crewmen was more raucous this time around as they called out cheers and hisses, vying for their chosen opponent.

At one point, Alistair had Hawke on her back and was attempting to pin her hands behind her when she raised her legs to either side of his hips and, clenching his waist with her thighs, twisted in a way that not only pulled her out from under him, but set him completely off balance, careening to the side and struggling to keep his feet. She rolled backward and regained her stance as he fell in as well and grinned at her. Her sparring with Fenris and the nearly constant barrage of food he'd been pushing at her – feeding her like she was a Grey Warden – had clearly done a great deal for her endurance and her strength. Focusing on the actual fighting was easier than he'd expected it to be and he found himself feeling a familiar rush of desire to win, to beat her, no matter who she was. He'd always had a competitive streak and Hawke seemed to bring it out in him more than he had become accustomed to since he'd been crowned. It felt oddly freeing to focus on just the current stakes, the current game and doing whatever it took to win.

They made several other passes and feints without either of them getting the high ground when suddenly Hawke rushed him. He crouched expecting her to try to tackle him or throw him off balance. Instead, she actually _climbed_ him, using his leg as a step up as she swung her other leg around his body. Almost instantly, she had her entire body pressed up against her from behind, legs locked at the ankles around his waist, arms around his shoulders with her hands interlaced. She whispered into his ear, lips surprisingly cool against the lobe "Gotcha", in a hot expulsion of breath that raised goose bumps.

For a second, he considered trying to unlock her, but instead backed up a few steps to trap her against the supporting wall of the stairwell that ran up to the forecastle. Letting his weight hold her there he reclined against her and put his hands on her ankles. She immediately gripped around him tighter, assuming he would try to pull them apart. He had no intention of doing that – instead he ran his hands on both sides up her calves and into the divot behind her knees. More than anything he wanted to keep moving, to feel all the way up those sweat-slicked thighs, but he stopped. Not here, on the deck, with all these men watching. Pausing a moment, he turned his head and murmured over his shoulder – looking into the one eye he could see from this vantage point "No, I've got _you_."

He then dug his fingers into the backs of her knees, wiggling against the tendons there and was satisfied by the yelp she let out. Tickling was completely not allowed in grappling matches, but he didn't care. With her trapped between his back and the wall all she could do was wriggle and buck against him to try to get away. After a moment of struggle and a continued litany of curses and cries and laughter, she dug the knuckles of both hands into the very bottom of his ribs, rubbing against them and causing him to yelp in return and drop his hold on her.

He immediately spun around and returned the favor, digging into her ribs and she in turn dug her fingers into the little bundle of mucles just under his collar bones before breaking away, laughing and running for another deck. He gave chase, smiling like a lunatic. He was able to catch her one more time, clamping an arm around her waist to hold her tight against him while he poked at her ribs and her neck in turn until she managed to wiggle away from him and darted off again. He caught up to her when she was nearly out of reach up one of the main rigging ropes, but he just managed to grab hold of her ankle and rake his nails along the bottom of her foot before she kicked violently and continued to climb.

She stayed there, up the rope, panting and laughing and screaming "It's not fair! Tickling is not fair!" while he collapsed on the deck below her, out of breath from laughter. It was only after a few moments of laying there panting that he realized that all the sailors and nearly all of his guards had been watching, giggling, gossiping, and more amongst themselves at the whole display. Zevran, for his part, looked uncommonly pleased with himself as he lent Alistair a hand up.

Both men squinted up at her, hands on their hips "Going to stay up there all day? That scared of a little tickling, are you?"

"YOU are a bad fighter and a bad bad man, Alistair Theirin."

"She's got you there, your majesty. I thought you were still opposed to anything that wasn't part of a fair fight?"

Alistair shrugged "I didn't realize the mighty Champion of Kirkwall was so very sensitive." He smirked up at Hawke and lowered his voice both in volume and timbre so that only Zevran would over hear "I guess I'll have to keep that in mind." The tone of his words was a little more than playful at that point. And he was pleased with himself when Hawke actually went a little flushed. "Come down, Hawke. No more tickling – I swear."

Hawke made a show of narrowing her eyes at him causing him to chuckle. She slowly came back down the rope and he reached out for her waist to guide her down as she let go. He didn't move his hands away immediately as she looked up at him, hands on his arms. She was still blushing a bit and again took a deep breath as she looked up into his eyes. He allowed himself a little smirk and squeezed her waist slightly with his fingers – a poor version of the sort of touching he wanted to be doing – but his guards had seen enough of him being completely inappropriate for one day. There was only so far he could push it before the gossip got out of hand.

They pulled away from each other, but took up sitting spots next to each other, shoulders touching, as the crowd broke up and everyone found something else to do for the rest of the day. They shared a drink and talked a bit before Zevran claimed he wasn't ticklish. That's all it took for Hawke to spend the next half an hour – but what felt like forever to Alistiar - poking and prodding at the elf in every nerve bundle, bunch of muscles, tendon, and sensitive spot she could think of, none of which elicited a reaction at all outside of Alistair wishing she would give up already and stop touching the assassin all over the place and Zevran occasionally laughing at whatever ridiculous new thing she was trying.

"Fine!" Hawke eventually huffed, hands on her hips "You're made of stone. "

"Oh, far from it, my Champion," Zevran practically purred at her "But I am also not one to make it easy on someone either."

"Ah! So you're presenting a challenge. I see." Hawke affected a thoughtful look. "Well, you have to sleep sometime, right?" She shrugged nonchalantly.

Zevran laughed "Typically I would not see the threat in that, but you, my dear, I think you may just be able to make good on that. I will have to lock my cabin door and hope you are loud with your picks, yes?"

The two of them shared a smile and Alistair was relieved in some sense to see that the tension that had been between the two rogues seemed gone now. In another sense, he was glad that Hawke was meeting the Zevran of now instead of the Zevran of 6 or so years ago or he'd be battling with the man constantly for her attention. While he didn't wish Zevran's heartache upon him by any means he also wouldn't relish the thought of him actively seeking out Hawke's attentions in front of him.

After sharing some ale and some food on the deck with Fenris and Noodle as the sun was setting, all of them were pushed into silence at the welcome relief of a sudden gust of wind. All faces on the ship turned appreciatively into the breeze for a moment before returning back to their activities. Shortly after, however, the wind in general picked up again, gusting and pushing in a way that was clearly not just a normal breeze. The crewmen called out for trimming of the sails to help use the front edge of the storm to their advantage and high them away from the area, but they would soon all be stuck in the sudden squall that signaled the end of the unwelcome calm they'd been floating through for the last several days.

Hawke stayed out on the deck longer than anyone else save Alistair, who hovered nearby, watching Hawke as she leaned out across the rail, face to the wind, smiling. When the rain suddenly came down in cold sheets, they both yelped and laughed and ran for the passageway to her cabin. Once they were under the roof, they stood laughing, Hawke's hands on his upper arms. After a moment, Alistair leaned forward and put his forehead to hers. He wanted to tell her it was nice to see her smile. He wanted to say that he had missed her. He wanted to confess to her how much he loved her. But he didn't want to break the spell, so he just smiled at her and she smiled back. Deciding that he was going to go completely insane if he didn't push it at least just a little, he forward and pulled her to him, wrapping his arms around her and leaning his head down into her neck. Hawke seemed to hesitate for just a moment but Alistair heard her let out a little laugh and she hugged him back, pushing up slightly on her toes to move against him more fully and squeezing her arms around him. He'd put his shirt back on a few hours before, but he wished at that moment that he hadn't.

They stood like that for longer than a hug should really last before slipping apart enough that just their hands were entangled, each leaning back against a wall of the very narrow hallway, one of Hawke's feet between Alistair's. For a few moments, they just stood there watching each other's faces, smiling, biting the inside of their cheeks, and swinging their hands between them. It was silly and it was awkward and Alistair didn't want to be anywhere else in the world right then, with the wind and the rain and the tossing waves roiling the entire ship in a din of noise that felt impossibly loud just a few feet from them in the open doorway. Somehow this was the most romantic moment of his life and that thought was so ridiculous that he started laughing. Hawke shot him a questioning look. He shook his head as he responded "I just realized how… strange… everything in my life is. And how much I absolutely adore it sometimes." Instead of stopping himself then, he leaned forward and kissed her without hesitation, as if it was the most natural and practiced thing in the world.

Thankfully, she immediately responded, kissing him right back. Her lips were dry, plump, and perfect. Everything he'd hoped and wanted and more as she pulled at and suckled his bottom lip and his hand on her waist tightened when he changed the angle of his head and pushed in for more. After a few moments, he put his hands on either side of her face as he pulled away so that he could really look at her and his chest felt tight when he could see in the dim, stormy light from the doorway the look of absolute happiness on her face. Her hands came up to catch his wrists and then she turned her head, kissing each of his palms in turn. He pulled her into him again, hugging her and nuzzling his face into her neck, breathing in the smell of her skin before sighing heavily. Her hands were at the small of his back, fisted into his shirt there. While he knew that he loved her in a way that he hadn't really loved anyone else in his life it hadn't felt quite real until just that moment. Alistair pulled back just enough to look at her face "I love you, Marian."

It felt like time stretched, like she was going to bolt from him or pull away or slap him, or any other horrible reaction he'd dreaded every other time he'd thought of this moment. But her eyes crinkled up at the corners and she darted forward, catching his mouth with hers and kissing him soundly before pulling back and whispering against his lips "I love you too, Alistair".

Alistair felt like his chest was going to burst. "Again," he said, with his eyes closed.

He felt her mouth pull up into a grin against his lips. "I love you, Alistair. Dearly and completely."

He let out a heavy breath and nuzzled his face down into the crook of her neck again, squeezing her tighter and she responded in kind, taking a firmer grip on his shirt and burying her face against his chest.

After a few moments, they turned together to watch the storm and Alistair moved around behind her, arms around her waist, cheek leaned against her head watching over her shoulder as sheets of rain lashed the deck.


	39. Chapter 39

_Sooo yeah. I'd said from the beginning that this was definitely a "slow-mance" but I guess it's been more like a "glacial-mance". And I'm okay with that. Don't be surprised if it continues to eek along slowly. We all know Hawke has issues with ... everything. But the issues Alistair brings to the table haven't even begun to rise to the surface. Somewhere down the road there will be plenty of squishy fluffy goodness. But both of these people are emotionally 10 miles of bad road and I'm going to spend some time letting them figure that out all. _

_Also - I'm writing a different story with Hawke and Fenris as a sideline/break when I can't bear to look at this one and all the horrendous amount of editing it needs. That will go up soonish. On with the story!_

...

The storm brought the winds back with a vengeance, making up the time they'd lost and then some. They made it into Amaranthine slightly before they'd originally estimated they'd be there, which was just as well since it seemed to take hours for the dock master to find them a slip.

Hawke spent the morning getting her amor ready. While it may not be strictly necessary, she was very aware of the fact that she was once again going to be on Ferelden soil and with the king no less. It would be important to look the part of Champion. Ignore that she was still technically Viscountess. She was Champion – that, at least, she felt she'd earned. Besides that, she simply felt more confident in her armor – more protected, less unsure of herself. During her time on The Calenhad she'd regained most of the weight she'd lost during her captivity and had finally started sleeping. Her nights were still sometimes interrupted by nightmares – most often visions of Orsino or Meredith, sometimes still the awful look on Anders's face as she'd condemned him to live, and occasionally dreams of Justice railing at her from the fade and ripping into her as she'd witnessed him to do Templars on several occasions – but on the whole she was sleeping far more than she had been. The dark circles under her eyes had eased and she looked far healthier than she had, less drawn. She felt just as haunted as ever, but it had been pushed back some and wasn't the ever present sense of being hunted it had been just a few weeks before. Alistair's presence had been a balm to her in many ways, just as much as Fenris's presence had been. And when she thought of their shared confessions in the rain - and she thought of them often – she felt happy in a way that she wouldn't have previously thought herself capable of.

When Fenris knocked on her cabin door to let her know that they were finally tying off, he stepped into the cabin to eye the bits of armor laid out across her bunk. All of it had been well cared for, but seeing it again was strange to him. It felt like a completely different life when Hawke had marched ahead of them in this striking assemblage of metals and leather and cloth. He'd helped her design the gauntlets that very closely mirrored his own with their sharp clawed fingers and ornamental – yet incredibly useful – spiked ridges along the knuckles.

Hawke herself was wearing her armor's underpadding which amounted to a very thick piece of fabric laid over top of a thin undershirt and trousers. Just enough to keep any of the metal from rubbing sore spots into her skin. She'd also brushed out her hair and tied in two braids at her temples that he assumed were there to keep the hair out of her face in lieu of her now customary kerchief.

Smirking at her, he gestured to the braids. "New hairstyle for your homeland?"

Hawke laughed "You'll find that it's a very Ferelden sort of thing. Wind braids are incredibly common as is slightly longer hair on men. Alistair is the odd one out on that front – most men have hair about the length of Zevran's – or at least they did when I last lived here."

Hawke began pulling on her chest piece and Fenris immediately moved to help her buckle the straps and adjust the fit. "Are you nervous?" She was affecting that overly talkative demeanor that he knew meant she was feeling unsettled.

Hawke let out a shaky breath and smiled at him "Is it that obvious?"

Quirking up one corner of his mouth, Fenris replied "You've spent all morning polishing armor that didn't need it and arranging it as if you've never worn it before. I know better than to think that's normal for you."

Pulling on the mail and leather trouser piece of her armor Hawke nodded at him "Yes, I am nervous. I haven't been here in years. Not that we spent much time in this part of the country even when I did live here – we were safer in the south overall. But we did live for a few months at a small farmstead near the Wending Wood between here and Vigil's Keep. It's… I can't explain what it feels like to be here again."

Fenris remained quiet, but he understood as much as he could. He couldn't relate to having a home to go back to. Tevinter did not count. He remembered bits and pieces of his life but none of it felt like home – not the way he thought home should feel. Seeing Hawke this nervous about visiting a land mass could seem odd to him, but he knew the way people in Kirkwall had talked about her. He knew that, though she seemed to go out of her way to revel in the label of "barbarian" and "dog lord", it had been a lonely and difficult time being away from her countrymen. That alone was such a huge part of her time spent at the Bone Pit and the care she'd had for the Ferelden refugees that he knew that while she scoffed at all the jeers she'd received, she was still fiercely loyal and attached to this country. They'd talked once about whether or not she would ever return and at the time, she didn't think she would. But he knew that after the death of her mother Kirkwall had become just one more place for her to escape from.

For his own part, he was not sure how he would feel about Ferelden. Certainly he was experiencing it for the first time in the best possible company – he would have a certain amount of shelter from the people just by virtue of the fact that he travelled with the King. But he'd also come to know the king as a person, a man, not as the sovereign of this country. He was very aware that sometimes the man and the role were extremely different, especially now that Alistair was back in his own country and there were certain expectations associated with the behavior of a country's ruler.

He knew these thoughts must also be troubling Hawke, though she didn't say so. He'd seen the way that she and Alistair had increasingly been interacting. That easy affection that they'd come to enjoy would be sorely tested by all of the ways Alistair would be expected to behave now. Knowing about the two of them – knowing and not just suspecting – well, Fenris had been surprised that Hawke still spent so much time talking to him, sitting with him. In many ways, Fenris still thought of himself as someone not worth the time and effort it took to know him. Seeing how clearly enamored Hawke was of Alistair, it was strange to see her still go out of her way to talk to him and not just in a basic "checking in" sort of way either. Not the way she dealt with Anders or Merrill while in Kirkwall. She seemed just as attached to their friendship now as she had ever been. It helped ease some of the slowly growing jealousy he'd felt at seeing his friend get so close to someone else. He always knew that Hawke's life would continue to evolve, but it wasn't until recently that he realized how much the prospect of being left behind had frightened him. Without actually saying anything, she'd reassured him that she was always going to be his family, no matter how the circumstances in her life might change.

Watching as she paced the room now, checking the fit of her greaves and her boots, adjusting straps and flexing her fingers, the view of her in her Champion armor once again it struck him just how odd this new chapter in both their lives was going to be. Feeling suddenly sentimental, he grabbed her wrist and pulled her into a hug.

"I guess incredibly nervous would be a more accurate way to put it." She murmured against his shoulder.

Fenris nodded, squeezing her tightly "I know Hawke, but we'll both be fine."

"You aren't very convincing when you've got me in a deathgrip." He could hear the smirk in her voice.

"It's not my fault you've grown soft during your life of leisure." He pulled back from her as he spoke, realizing he had indeed been nearly crushing her. Maybe he was a little more nervous than he'd realized.

Patting him lightly on the cheek, Hawke shrugged at him "I guess there's no more putting this off, hmm? Let's go see how we're supposed to behave in the presence of a king, shall we?"

Making their way out of the cabin, Hawke immediately saw that the crewmen of the ship were busy already offloading what cargo the king was taking with him. The deck was also swarming with dock workers from the port. Several crewmen darted into Hawke's cabin and gathered her chests as well, putting them with several others being prepared to offload onto the dock. The king's guards were all back in their armor which looked odd and overly heavy given the weeks at sea with these men in nothing but the lightest and loosest clothing they could find.

There in the midst of them all, directing men and speaking to the captain of the ship was Alistair. He was also wearing his armor – not the ornate, gleaming set he'd worn previously, but a more utilitarian set of plate mail. For its less ostentatious look it was still impressive. His was a body made for armor. She knew from seeing him without a shirt at all that the bulk there, the expanse of his shoulders and chest, was all him, just clad in metal. He seemed more comfortable standing in plate than he had in simple tunics most of the time and Hawke was reminded of his Templar training. She was in love with someone who easily could have been a Templar. The spirit of her father was likely restless at the thought. She knew from fighting him as well that he would move just as quickly in that armor as he would without it and that the weight seemed to have little to no effect on his overall fatigue. Though Hawke was always drawn to people with a sense of humor and people of intelligence, the addition of this man also being a martial powerhouse was undeniably attractive. When he caught sight of her and smiled at her, she couldn't help but take a deep breath. Even standing there, emanating an aura of rulership, he was still hers. She knew it as strongly as she knew that Fenris and Noodle would take a blow for her without a second thought and that she would do the same for them.

Alistair Theirin, King of Ferelden, and he was standing there smiling at her like she was the only woman in the world.

For Alistair's part, he'd been nervously directing men in mindless tasks that morning and had only just returned to the deck. He wasn't nervous about returning to Ferelden. He was nervous about how Hawke might feel about it, given that he now had to behave as a king and that, more often than not, he hadn't been acting that way at all on their trip here. Hawke herself had been fine – typically just following his lead. He wasn't concerned that she would be put out by any rules of propriety – but he was concerned that his own change in demeanor would be taken wrong.

When she stepped out of her cabin and came into view in her Champion armor it was frankly stunning. The armor was clearly made just for her and for all of its wicked spikes and thick slabs of devious looking metal, it clung to her form in a way that brought out her hips and the nip of her waist, the swell of her chest. The little bird skull buckles and the cloth skirt were both so unique that he couldn't help but stare a bit. He'd never seen armor quite like it and wasn't sure that she'd even wear it again. Clearly she knew that it would be best for her to be seen as Champion of Kirkwall, accompanying the king of her homeland in some official capacity. And if the smile on her face and the warmth in her eyes were not genuine then he truly could not tell.

Hawke stopped a respectful distance from him and bowed her head slightly "Your Majesty."

"Hawke, I was just about to come find you. Because we got into port fairly early in the day, I'd like to make some headway on the way to Vigil's keep. We'll likely have to camp tonight but can be at the Vigil by mid-day tomorrow as long as nothing goes awry. I've had your things gathered and we'll take a hired cart and horse for our supplies and belongings, but otherwise set out of foot."

Hawke nodded "Very well, your majesty. Are there any supplies we need to gather in the city? Fenris and I could go ahead and make those arrangements while you and your guard finish your preparations." Alistair was impressed with how easily Hawke slipped into a polite, yet familiar tone with him. Even "your majesty" didn't come out as stilted or difficult as it had for those who had known him before he was king. Maybe all of this wouldn't be as awkward as he had feared afterall.

"Actually, we have most of the provisions arranged already and Zevran has already slipped off the ship. Most likely he'll just meet us at Vigil's Keep – he has a tendency to just set off on his own. However, if the two of you would like to stretch your legs, I certainly won't keep you here. We should be ready to head off the ship within half an hour or so I believe. We have to make a quick stop at the Chantry – the quicker the better – but then I can meet you at the gates to the city in – say… two hours? I know it's not ideal, but I will have to send a few guards with you."

While he really did think it was a good idea for Hawke to be able to wander as she pleased, there was also a part of him screaming in protest at the thought of letting her out of his sight. For roughly a month of time at sea they'd been around each other without escape, for better or worse. The thought of suddenly losing her in a crowd or being unable to take a few steps and knock on her cabin door was oddly frightening. Foregoing the utterly required formality of the situation since they were still at dock and had not drawn much attention from the city yet, Alistair stepped forward and pulled Hawke into a hug, kissing her temple in the process. He gave her a quick squeeze and let her go, answering her questioning look with a smile that he hoped looked reassuring.

"Yes, your majesty, we'll meet you at the gates." Hawke bowed her head slightly and Alistair was pleased that she seemed to understand the quick embrace. Perhaps his worry that she'd feel put out or rejected by his necessary distance was poorly placed. He was suddenly sure that he would have far more difficulty getting used to it.

Hawke whistled for Noodle and the three of them made their way down the gangplank and into the city proper with two guards following at a very discreet distance. Once she was standing on the dock it took a moment for her to remember what solid ground felt like. It seemed like a lifetime ago that she'd actually walked on a floor that wasn't pitching and moving beneath her and the novelty gave her a giddy feeling.

"I'm hungry, Fenris. How about we go to an inn and see about getting you some proper Ferelden food and ale that doesn't come from a cask in my library, hmm?"

Fenris inclined his head "Lead the way." He too was feeling a little off balance by the suddenly solid ground beneath his feet. Once they moved away from the docks he also was immediately assaulted by what he had to assume was the famous Ferelden smell. It was like buying your face in Mabari fur. Though the air was cooler than it had been in Rivain or Antiva, it was still warm overall and the light breeze was pleasant. Having grown accustomed to the smell of Mabari during his time with Hawke and even more so since sharing a room with Hawke and the great beast, he wasn't as offput by the overall smell of dog and mud that others seemed to complain about. There was also the smell of trees, even in the middle of the city. He understood now why Hawke always complained bitterly about the stone of Kirkwall and how it felt "dead" to her.

They were attracting some level of attention as they made their way through the lower end of the marketplace and Hawke stopped at a stall to ask for directions to "a good tavern". While Fenris had long grown accustomed to the strange and curious looks he received, it was a new experience to hear so many voices that reminded him of Hawke's. Her accent had always seemed particular to her and the few Fereldens within Kirkwall. Hearing an entire city speak out with similar inflections was bizarre. While he got his share of the attention from those they passed, many were also just as interested in Hawke herself. Until she was named Champion in Kirkwall she passed largely unnoticed. Here in Ferelden, where it was far more common for women to have martial standing and prowess, it wasn't the fact that she was a clearly armed and potentially dangerous woman that got their attention. With her newly bronzed skin, the green and gold in her eyes stood out more as did the blond highlights in her hair. Fenris had to admit that Hawke was utterly striking in her armor. He had to assume that most of the murmuring around her was because of her general appeal. There was also a bit of a commotion about the Mabari, which Fenris hadn't expected. But apparently Noodle was an exceptional example of the breed and most of the attention they received on his account was fawning. He'd gotten used to the Mabari striking a wary fear in people. Seeing an entire city fall all over themselves to pet the beast was certainly amusing.

They made their way to an inn called the Crown and Lion. Hawke swept in, took up a seat and held up three fingers to the waitress as she came past. In short order two mugs of ale and two portions of a thick, meaty stew were deposited on their table with another bowl easily three times the size placed on the floor beside their table for Noodle. The fact that they served the Mabari without even having to be asked was another thing that Fenris would have to get used to.

As Hawke dug into her food with relish she felt more at ease than she had in a long time. Now that she was back in her native country, she simply felt… comfortable. It wasn't something she thought she could really explain if anyone were to ask, but Fenris had so far been more than happy to simply follow and absorb the sights of Amaranthine. The stew was a typical lamb stew, nearly the national dish of Ferelden. While it certainly wasn't her favorite meal, everything just seemed to taste better than she remembered. The bread that had been laid out with their meal was easily the best part and she nearly stuffed herself using it to dip up bits of the stew's gravy.

"This ale is quite good, Hawke. I thought perhaps what Alistair sent you was something extraordinary but knowing that this is what's served anywhere explains quite a bit about your drinking habits in Kirkwall."

"Kirkwall ale is piss, Fenris. And now you know why I have that opinion. Just as no wine will stand up to Tevinter vintages in your mind – not that I disagree with you – no ale will stand up to Ferelden ale in mine. Even dwarven ale, though stronger by far, is horrible in comparison. I have to think it's the lack of grains in Orzammar but whatever it is – it's thin, watery, and tastes a little like dirt."

Fenris laughed at that. "I truly had no idea you were such a connoisseur, Hawke."

Hawke grinned at him over the rim of her mug "Oh just wait until we get to Denerim. The inns there stock a lot of imported ales from various areas. They all have their unique twists based on what flourishes most in their respective areas."

"A drinking tour of Ferelden, with my very own guide. I look forward to it."

When they'd eaten themselves nearly into a stupor, Hawke stretched and went to the bar to quiz the barkeep about local shops that might have travelling supplies and who to avoid. She found her easy charm even more effective in Amaranthine so far than it had been in Kirkwall. They didn't immediately dismiss her as a filthy refugee for one and they also didn't pretend not to understand her accent. The dwarven barkeep was more than happy to direct her to merchants he thought would treat her well, though she knew that probably meant they were friends or family of his and he knew they would try to rob her blind. It at least gave her a useful list of people to avoid.

For the next hour or so, she and Fenris milled around through the city, Noodle forging the way, wiggling madly at all the new smells. She replenished some of her herbs and supplies and picked up a few new water skins and packs for the both of them since theirs were well worn and Fenris's main pack had apparently been used a shield against arrows at some point judging from the state of it. It had been several years since the Darkspawn attack and fire that had nearly decimated the entire city but it had rebuilt itself well, with the new construction neatly meeting with the remnants of what was already there. A casual observer may not notice the difference at all.

The area just beyond the main gate was the only indication that the city may not have recovered as fully as one might think. There were plenty of makeshift homes and tents with people living as refugees. Hawke and Fenris made their way through the encampment, despite a guard at the gates warning her away from it, claiming that it was filled with nothing but cut purses and churls. "Sounds like my kind of people!" Hawke had quipped, earning a rueful scowl. They saw here the typical signs of any group of people who had fallen through the cracks – the wary eyes, the paranoid scrambling for their children when they saw strangers approaching, the dirty faces and threadbare clothes. Hawke knew that this was common to any major city but she hated being reminded of the refugees in Kirkwall while standing on Ferelden soil.

After a few poor starts, she finally found one woman bold enough to actually talk to her. It turned out that most of these people had originally been ensconsed on nearby farms that had been destroyed by the Darkspawn. While the taint in the region had not greatly affected the soil and the fields were still arable, few of them had the resources to restart their homesteads and had been left drifting. The current Arl of Amaranthine had done a fine job of allocating resources for rebuilding of the city but had focused little to nothing on the outlying farms, which were the great wealth of this region of Ferelden. With what Hawke knew of the ongoing shortage of grain being sent to the capital it seemed incredibly short sighted to rebuild a city and forget the farmers that supplied it. She didn't have all the details of course, but it still seemed wrong to her. Finding out from the woman, whose name she only eventually learned was Naomi, who this refugee band's defacto leader was, she found the man and gave him a small purse, asking him to use it as needed to lay in supplies for the winter and keep them all fed as best he could in the meantime. It took four tries to get him to accept it and then another 15 minutes of promising him that she didn't have any other motive and that she wasn't going to come back in the night to steal women or children from them before he finally relented and simply thanked her.

It should have been annoying but it just wasn't. She was going to end up giving away her gold until she was just as poor as the rest of them, but that prospect seemed far less daunting now that she was here in Ferelden. She could get by, she could make do, and she would relish the opportunity. It seemed silly to think of possibly doing it on purpose but the thought had occurred to her. Just give it all away, disappear into the forests, change her name and never leave. Not that she would do that – not without convincing Alistair to do the same. But it was a nice thought. Just two nameless people in a cottage somewhere in the forest, exempt from every expectation except those they had of each other.

When she had gotten so goofy and sentimental she wasn't sure, but she was keeping it to herself for the moment.

Shortly after her talk with the leader of the encampment, she saw the King's guards amassing at the gate. Fully twice as many as had been there before – they must have had word of his arrival and sent a larger contingent than the small group that had accompanied him to Rivain. She and Fenris joined them with Noodle shooting off before them. He was full of energy from the long time at sea and desperately needed to run some of it off. The trip across the countryside to Vigil's Keep would be good for him. They caught up with Noodle to see him rubbing himself back and forth like a cat against Alistair.

"I think he likes me." Alistair grinned up at Hawke as they approached. They were soon shuffled into their place in the formation, with guards forming a general circle around the whole band, Alistair in the center behind the wagon with their supplies, Hawke and Fenris there with him, and flanked from behind by more guards. It was strange having this much protection for something as simple as a walk across the country, but Hawke had to admit she was feeling slightly more vigilant herself with the King in their company. Both she and Fenris immediately began scanning the sides of the road and the treeline for ambushes, wild animals, bandits, and anything else that looked out of place. Hawke and Fenris were both completely unaccustomed to trusting their safety to other people. Even as Alistair engaged them in conversation, they remained wary.

As the day spun on and they made what Hawke felt was frustratingly little progress, she tried to let herself relax and simply enjoy the fact that she was walking free.

"Why are there so many refugees at the gates of Amaranthine?" It had been bothering her since they'd left but she wasn't sure if she should even broach the subject. Afterall, Alistair hadn't even been in the country for the last month and that was entirely her fault. While Arls were beholden to their king, each Arling and Teyrnin was largely autonomous and they dealt with their internal issues without much oversight or interference from the crown until it was deemed necessary.

"Unfortunately there have always been refugees there to some extent. Amaranthine has recovered somewhat since the Darkspawn incursions of several years ago, but I was surprised myself to see how dug in they seemed." Alistiar replied levelly.

"From speaking with some of them, it seems that the Arl has focused the rebuilding on the city proper and spared little thought for the surrounding farmlands. Most of those there in camp were farmers who didn't have the coin to restart their farms." Hawke was trying to sound conversational in a way that she truly didn't feel. Which Alistair seemed to pick up on.

"You seem to have an opinion on the matter, Hawke, speak your mind." He grinned at her.

Hawke took a moment to compose her thoughts. This wasn't banter. As far as she was concerned this was important. "The crown has been forced to broker deals throughout the Free Marches in order to keep your people fed yet completely suitable land sits unused and the farmers to tend the land live in a tent city begging outside of the walls. It would take very little coin to assist those farmers in getting their crops re-started. Even this time of year summer wheat will take hold and produce a decent enough crop to get them through the winter, preparing them with enough seed to sow a fuller crop next year. Though it is an investment that is unlikely to see a strong return until at least a full year from now, it would give those people work." She realized she was nearly making a full speech now, but couldn't stop herself. "Not only would that help those refugees directly, but it would help the guards in Amaranthine since we both know camps like that attract thieves who will prey on the refugees as well as the merchants. It will also help the Arling itself since they will be able to rely on locally produced grains instead of importing them, which they're surely having to rely heavily on if as much land is lying fallow as it seems. The rebuilding of Amaranthine has obviously been successful, but one central city does not make up an Arling. The farmlands are just as important and can't continue to be neglected – especially when that neglect results in those farmers living like beggars. They want to work."

Alistair nodded thoughtfully through all this. "You know, I'll bring all of this up with the Arl. I have no idea what their stores are like but he is a vassal of Highever. If he cannot raise the funds himself I'm sure Teyrna Cousland may be able to work something out."

Hawke was frankly surprised "Just like that? You'll just… bring it up to the Arl?"

Alistair laughed "It's one of the advantages of speaking directly to the king, Hawke. It helps when you're completely correct. None of the situation with the refugees has been reported back through the Landsmeet or the reports from Commander Caron. I wonder now if that's been deliberate."

"Wait… what does the Warden Commander have to do with this? Is he somehow connected with the Arling?"

"The crown gave the Arling of Amaranthine to the Grey Wardens as a base of operations. They work out of Vigil's Keep, but part of being the Warden Commander is also being Arl of Amaranthine."

Hawke didn't bother to hide her astonishment "So wait… the same order that claims to be utterly politically neutral is actually part of the government in Ferelden? How is that even possible?"

"It's what I decided to do. You have to understand – Grey Wardens were exiled from Ferelden for attempting to overthrow a king. Nevermind that the man was a tyrant – the Wardens were acting completely against the rules of their own order. It wasn't until Maric that Wardens were allowed back in the country. And in that time, it was extremely difficult to rebuild the order. At the battle of Ostagar nearly all of us were wiped out, leaving only myself and Solona in the country facing a blight. We can never allow that to happen again. It was important to me that the message be loud and clear – Grey Wardens were not only welcome in Ferelden, their presence was a necessary defense and we needed to honor their place among us."

Hawke absorbed that for a moment, then nodded "Okay, I understand that. But…wouldn't it have been completely possible to have a permanent home for the Wardens at Vigil's Keep while still having a proper Ferelden ruler for the Arling? I can't imagine that the people here are too enamoured of the idea of an Orlesian Grey Warden ruling them. Why must the Warden Commander also be the Arl?"

Alistair sighed "Again, it was important to send a message on many fronts. You aren't the first to have this argument with me, I assure you. So far, Commander Caron has done a very good job in his role as Arl as well as his role as Warden Commander. The ranks of Ferelden Grey Wardens have swelled under his command and from what I understand, they were able to deal with the thaw much more expediently than has been the case in previous blights."

Hawke was sure that there was much more to this that Alistair simply wasn't sharing, but he'd said that he would speak to the man about the refugees and that would have to be enough.

The group lapsed into silence after that, each in their own separate thoughts as they watched the road and trudged along after the wagon. They stopped to eat eventually, one of the guards distributing dried rations of fruit and meat around to all the men. Noodle dashed off the side of the road at one point and he could be heard crashing through the underbrush. Fenris immediately went into high alert, but Hawke waved a hand at him lazily. A few moments later, Noodle returned with a rabbit clutched in his jaws and settled down at Hawke's feet to crunch and tear at the thing. "Since you've just proven you can still catch your own meals, I'll expect far less begging at the table from you."

Noodle turned a baleful eye at Hawke and huffed slightly, but went back to his rabbit with enthusiasm.

Travel continued on and Hawke realized that they hadn't encountered a single other soul on the road, let alone the kind of bandits and highwaymen she would have expected to find on the Pilgrim's Path. Thinking aloud, she said that maybe Caron was doing something right after all, which earned her a little smirk from Alistair "See, I'm not a _complete_ idiot."

Before nightfall they were able to see the top edges of the towers connected to Vigil's Keep. It made Hawke want to continue pushing onward, but at this distance it would be an easy trip tomorrow. Travelling at night, even though a countryside as tamed as this seemed to be, was probably unwise. Beyond that, there wasn't anything at the Vigil for her to push on toward. She was here and along for the ride – the time it took should hardly matter to her. She was home.

Both Hawke and Fenris insisted on helping set up camp, clearing stones and building a firepit while the guards set up tents. Hawke noted that Alistair insisted on setting up his own tent as well and that he was using tents the same size as everyone else's despite the fact that there was clearly a large, ornate tent in the wagon. The night air was cooler here in the quiet of the woods and Hawke was thankful for the ability to build a large fire to warm themselves by. The guards took to cooking a stew and Hawke wandered around the edges of the camp with Fenris for a bit.

"Is all of Ferelden like this?" Fenris spoke quietly, keeping his voice low so that it only travelled to Hawke and not the guards already walking the perimeter.

"Like what?"

"These isolated little cities surrounded by forests. I'm accustomed to Minrathous where it's one big sprawling city and there is no forest to speak of. Even the woodlands around Kirkwall seemed dense to me." Fenris peered out into the darkened forest as if he expected something to leap out at him.

Hawke smiled at him "I forgot how much of a city-dweller you are." At his snort, she laughed and continued "Yes, a lot of Ferelden is like this. Amaranthine isn't exactly a tiny city by Ferelden standards. Denerim is much larger, roughly the size of Kirkwall if you leave off all the mines. But most people live out in the woods and farmland. The Bannorn, in the middle of the country probably holds the majority of those who live in Ferelden, but it's so large that you can travel for days without finding a homestead or a village. We'll be travelling along the Pilgrim's Path – a major trade route – to the south to reach Denerim, probably passing through Dragon's Peak along the way."

Fenris was eyeing her as she spoke "You know, it never really occurred to me before that you seemed out of place. But seeing you here now… you were. You belong here."

Laughing, Hawke shook her head and pulled a leaf from a tree, "I'm not sure I really belong anywhere, Fenris. But I understand what you mean. I think I just missed it. Give me a few weeks and I'll be just as grumpy and out of sorts here as I was in Kirkwall."

Once most of the camp was settled, Hawke took a moment to duck into the tent she'd be using and change out of her armor. With so many guards, she needn't worry about needing it in the middle of the night and Maker knew she'd fought without it plenty of times in the past. Changing into a loose tunic and leggings, she made her way over to the fire where several guards tending the stew pot were talking with Alistair, happily laughing back and forth. The conversation ebbed as she got closer. "Don't stop on my account, sers."

The guards smiled at her, but didn't resume their conversation. While she'd gone out of her way to get to know some of them while on the ship, the others who had joined them in Amaranthine were obviously not yet willing to simply treat her like one of their own after only a day together on the road.

"So, how was your first day back on Ferelden soil? Was it everything you remember it as?" Alistair had a gleam in his eye as he spoke, that little twinkle of mischief that never quite seemed to leave him.

Stretching her legs out in front of her and crossing them at the ankles she stretched "It's nice being here. It smells right – if that makes any sense."

"Missed the smell of dog, did you?" Alistair leaned in as he smirked at her.

"I live with a Mabari, Alistair. You can't miss the smell of dog when it's wafting out at you every night and pushing you out of bed."

One of the guards spoke up at that "Letting a Mabari share your bed, eh? That's one coddled wardog, my lady."

The other guard elbowed him in the ribs and shot him a look, but Hawke just nodded "That he is. We're going to have to introduce him to other Mabari and teach him how he should actually behave."

Noodle, who had been thoroughly attached to Alistair since they'd made camp lifted his head from the king's lap and whined at Hawke. Alistair immediately gave in, scratching Noodle's ears and cooing at him "You behave just fine. Don't let them tell you otherwise."

Seemingly satisfied that he had at least one human completely under wraps, he slumped back down against Alistair.

"You've stolen my Mabari, your majesty."

"Borrowed him, not stolen. He'd still rip my face off if he thought I was threatening you."

The rest of the night passed pleasantly enough though Hawke caught herself sharing long looks with Alistair more than once across the fire. Neither of them said anything or even hinted or flirted around, but it was obvious they were both in the same frame of mind. The guards who had been on the ship wouldn't bat an eye and they were his most trusted group, those he didn't mind at all having around for any number of things that might be sensitive. But the broader group being on hand meant that all of the Kingly behaviors he'd put on hold needed to come back to the forefront - which meant being proper around the sole woman in their camp. While there was no fear on Alistair's part that the guards would gossip with anyone but among themselves, there was always the chance of others seeing while they moved about during the day. It would simply be easiest to maintain the same level of propriety at all times than to turn it on and off as needed. At least until they were back in Denerim where he had far more control over the environment and his own levels of privacy.

Still – being there in camp with Hawke and unable to pull her over to him, slip his hand into hers, or even just blatantly flirt as he wanted to was slightly maddening. He wanted to tell her exactly how fetching she looked in that armor all day. He wanted to tell her exactly how fetching she looked just then, in her tight leggings and the loose tunic that still seemed to settle around her curves. He hadn't seen her by firelight before and it just brought to mind all those nights during the blight when he wasn't sure that they'd even survive and he'd wished that he had someone to share them with. He thought at one point he'd found that but it has been… illusory. And now, here she was and he wasn't in a position to enjoy her company as he wished. He consoled himself with the thought that she was here. Now. With him. She was sitting in his camp surrounded by his guards and they would soon be heading to his home in Denerim. There was never enough time, but for this, he'd force himself into patience.

….

The next day's travel barely seemed to get started before they were making their way up the sloped path to Vigil's Keep. Fenris and Hawke had taken to a completely childish game of trying to knock the other off balance in the most subtle ways possible and had been at it for nearing an hour when the gates finally came into view. While Alistair was happy to see that Hawke was in a good mood, he did feel slightly like a grumpy old man everytime something Fenris did sent Hawke careening against him only to have her giggle and mumble "sorry" before heading off toward Fenris again. Part of it, he realized, was that he couldn't goof off with them, as much as he wanted to. They had fallen in with a small band of merchants making their way north from Denerim and therefore were not exactly alone as the merchant's children sat looking out the back of the wagon, gawking at him. They'd been at it for miles now, as if Alistair were a fascinating beast of unknown origin and not just some man in armor with an awful lot of guards.

The criers at the gates called out their arrival just as Hawke let out another peal of laughter and Alistair caught site of Fenris glowering and pulling clumps of dried grass out of his hair and he got back to his feet. He'd never seen someone look so annoyed while they supposedly had fun. Maybe it wasn't fun at all for him, just for Hawke, who seemed to laugh when she was getting knocked down just as much as she laughed when she knocked Fenris down. How in Thedas you end up inventing a game like that was beyond Alistair.

Maintaining his "I'm here on important business" façade, and knowing that he was going to cause Seneshal Varel a minor heart attack for not having announced his arrival, Alistair strode into the gates, his guard parting around him as he made his way to the inner courtyard. He only had a moment to look around before Caron was there with a red-face Varel.

"Your Majesty, it is a surprise you have arrived. We were not aware you were heading to Amaranthine or we would have prepared for your visit." Caron bowed deeply as he spoke, with Varel following suit.

"It was a bit of a last minute decision, Caron. I apologize if we caught you off guard. This isn't an official visit at all, we're simply passing through on our way to Denerim."

"I understood that your Majesty was out of the country, Rivain was it? I hope your return trip was pleasant."

Back behind him, Alistair could hear Hawke and Fenris scuffling around, clearly intent on continuing to be as silly as possible that morning. He tried not to let it distract him. "Yes, the return trip was fine, though I am thankful to be back in the milder climate."

Varel interrupted at this point in his grave tone, "Surely your majesty would like to rest after your travel from Amaranthine. We will have a room prepared for you shortly. Your guards will have plenty of space in the barracks. If you would like to follow me, I have called for some refreshments."

"Thank you, Varel, you are most thoughtful. Please, also have rooms prepared for my guests as well."

Varel looked vaguely confused and looked around slightly, clearly only seeing guards. Alistair rolled his eyes. He was going to have to talk to Hawke and Fenris about the whole "presenting yourselves and then going and being silly as much as you like" part of this whole thing.

Turning, Alistair called back through his guards "Hawke? Fenris?"

His guards parted and both Hawke and Fenris looked up at him almost sheepishly before Hawke snapped out of it and strode forward. She held out her hand to Caron instead of dropping into a curtsey "I am Marian Hawke, a pleasure to meet you, Arl Caron – or do you prefer Warden Commander?"

Caron looked taken aback for a moment but took her hand. "Please, just call me Caron, my lady. As a Grey Warden we become accustomed to not having titles." Hawke nodded in acceptance of that.

"May I present my friend Fenris." Fenris did not extend his hand, he simply nodded once at the man in a sort of rough bow.

"A pleasure to meet you as well. Of course we will prepare quarters for you. I assume in the main keep?" Caron directed that last question at Alistair who looked at him with a confused expression.

"Yes, Caron. I would prefer that their rooms be somewhere in the keep and not say… the kennels or the stable…."

Caron waved his hand and laughed, a little strained. "Oh! Of course, your majesty, that is not what I meant at all. I am sure Varel can see to it." Caron gave Varel a very weighted look that Alistair didn't like the look of at all, but let it pass. They just spent a month on a ship. Any room with a hot bath and a bed that didn't feel mostly made of ropes was fine with him and he was sure it would be fine with Hawke and Fenris as well.

Dismissing his guards, Alistair, Hawke, Fenris, and an overly excited Noodle made their way into the keep's dining hall where food had been laid out. Alistair immediately set to making a plate for himself and sat with Fenris while Hawke wandered around the room, looking at the tapestries with a critical eye.

Caron and Alistair exchanged the typical courtly small talk that Alistair had come to loathe while he ate. He had been hoping to bump into some of the other Wardens while he was here but unfortunately most of them were out on patrol just then. Eventually Alistair was shown to a room where a bath had been drawn for him. Hawke had already slipped out of the dining hall at some point while he'd been talking and so he didn't get the chance to tell her where he'd be. A few hours later after a ridiculously long soak and a change of clothes, Alistair set out to find Hawke. He looked through every main area of the keep he could think of, sure he'd find her in one of the studies but she was nowhere to be found. Eventually he made his way out to the yard only to find her in a sparring ring with Oghren of all people, trying to mow her down with a battle axe twice his own height as Fenris looked on.

"Stay in one spot so I can stick ya!" Oghren bellowed.

As Hawke jumped out of the way of another swing and rolled past Oghren to thump him on the back of his helmet she laughed "Ah! The mating call of the dwarves!"

"You fight like that flouncy elf! Stand and fight like a man!" Oghren took another wild swing at Hawke, going for her legs and she easily jumped the axe and then charged right at Oghren, knocking him off his feet and landing heavily on his chest.

"Manly enough for you?" Hawke had both daggers pointed at his throat, clearly having won this round.

"Get off me you long legged freak!"

Hawke just laughed and helped Oghren to his feet. "So you're a berserker who doesn't use his rage and a sore loser to boot." Oghren just eyed her warily so she continued. "If you aren't going to try to fight me, why should I try to fight you back?"

Oghren let out one of his rolling laughs that sounded disturbingly like a very husky giggle "You caught me. Didn't want to mess up your pretty little face. How about you and me go have a drink or twelve and I'll show you other ways my _rage_ can be used, eh?" Ogrhen waggled his eyebrows suggestively at her, which made Hawke laugh.

"You really are a dirty little dwarf. I like you." She clapped him on the back and sauntered over to where Alistair had joined Fenris.

"I thought Varric was too suggestive and lewd. Clearly I haven't met enough dwarfs." Fenris scowled. He was not impressed with the very uncouth, swaggering menace replacing his weapons in the rack.

Alistair shook his head "That's just Oghren. Even in Orzammar I never met another dwarf quite so… filthy."

Ogrhen turned on his heel at Alistair's voice "Oh! Well if it isn't the little pike twirler come for a visit! To what do we owe the honor your majesty? Haven't seen you here in over a year."

"Just passing through, Oghren. I see you've met Hawke and Fenris. What uh… caused this little sparring match?"

Oghren made that lecherous little giggle again "I saw her walking around and told her we needed to go a few rounds with my big weapon. She assumed I meant fighting so that's what we did."

Hawke just smirked at Oghren, "His wordplay is just far too clever for me."

"I like this one, Alistair. Much better than that sissy britches Teagan you're always dragging around."

"You just don't like the way his goatee scratches your cheek, Oghren." Alistair replied evenly.

Ogrhen hadn't expected that and he nearly threw himself into a coughing fit laughing. "By my ancestors, what's gotten into you? A few years ago and something like that would have made you blush."

Alistair just smiled at him knowingly but didn't say anything.

"Well I'm going to find somewhere to wash up. I'm sure Ogrhen can attest to the fact that I smell." Hawke started to leave the practice ring but Alistair reached out for her hand, tugging her back.

"You alright?"

Hawke cocked her head at him "Yes. Why?"

Grinning, Alistair shrugged "Just making sure. I know when I wonder off and beat on people there's usually a reason for it."

Hawke shook her head at him and smiled "I'm fine, really. Just getting my footing, sparring with dwarves, scrutinizing wall hangings… you know… same old same old."

Alistair wasn't really sure what this odd mood was about but he let it go and let go of her hand, watching her walk away into the Keep.

Oghren had watched that exchange "She was asking me about Anders before we decided to fight. I didn't realize that sassy mage had made his way to Kirkwall at all."

Alistair felt his stomach drop. It hadn't even occurred to him that Anders had been here as a Grey Warden and that Hawke would know about that. "What did she ask?"

Oghren shrugged "Just about how he was conscripted and when he left the keep. She said he ran a clinic in Kirkwall for awhile before moving on."

Alistair shot Fenris a look and Fenris returned it.

"Did twinkle toes get up to something that you two aren't telling me?" Oghren eyed them both suspiciously.

"I'm sure it will come out soon enough, Oghren. But Anders wasn't… quite himself when he left, was he?"

The dark look that came over the Dwarf's face was answer enough. "No, he wasn't. He took out a lot of good men with him as well. I thought maybe he'd worked out his problems while he was in Kirkwall if he was setting up shop."

Eager to change the subject, Alistair jumped on his opportunity, "Speaking of working out your problems, how's your son?"

Oghren, for all his angry bluster, couldn't help the grin that split his face "Aww the little nuglet's just fine. He's with his mother in Amaranthine right now. Visits every few weeks."

"Come tell me about him. I think we could all use a drink."

…

It was a few hours later when Hawke returned to find them in the dining hall surrounded by a few groups of soldiers, Fenris, Oghren, and Alistair all in various states of inebriation. She desperately wanted something warm to drink but found nothing that remotely fit the bill anywhere along the sideboard with the evening meal was laid out. She was not feeling welcome in Kirkwall at all. She'd gotten a ridiculous run around about something as simple as a bath or even a wash basin and a piece of soap. She was finally somewhat clean and had changed into a belted tunic and leggings but it had been like pulling teeth to get anyone to even talk to her let alone give her any assistance. The room she'd been shown to as hers was actually part of a series of rooms in what looked like the servant's quarters. That was fine with her – it was a bed. The problem came when trying to find anywhere she could wash up. The few servants who were around either chose not to speak to her at all or gave her gruff half answers that made no sense. She felt like she'd just been through some kind of servant's breaking in ritual and wasn't even been paid for the privilege.

When she'd finally found a room with a basin and a pump for the well she'd closed the door and stripped down, settling her clean clothing nearby. Twice the door was unceremoniously thrown open while she was nude and half covered in soap as someone made their way in to fetch something off one of the shelves. The second time the elven man hadn't even bothered to shut the door behind him. Beyond the basic indignity of having complete strangers walk in on her while she was naked, the water seemed to have come from some well that piped directly in from the Frostbacks and she was freezing, teeth chattering by the time she was done.

Going back into her quarters she discovered that nearly everything in her pack had been pulled out and gone through, unceremoniously dumped across the bed. Sorting through her things she didn't find anything missing, at least, but it was uncommonly rude. Her armor, which she'd laid out neatly across the bed had also been toyed with, some of the straps undone, the pieces rearranged. There was also nowhere for her to lock it up or even hide it, so she left the whole mess there, unpacked and in dissaray, sure that if she repacked everything she'd just find it torn out again when she returned. Until she'd moved into the estate in Hightown she'd had precious few belongings. Even then, what was in the estate were things she by and large considered property of her mother outside of the contents of the library, her clothing, and her personal journal. Having even less than that to her name now, the few things she was willing to drag across Thedas with her were important to her and it felt violating to have someone's hands on it without her permission. She ran a brush through her hair, trying to work out some of the water that still dripped frigidly down her back, and wondered why she never bought any thick wool clothing while she was in Kirkwall.

Still shivering slightly, she made her way back up to the dining hall and to the table where the unlikely trio of drinking pals sat and scooted in close to Fenris, hoping some of his warmth would radiate into her. The three of them didn't even seem to notice that she'd sat down and continued talking. That was fine with her. She was in such an ill mood at that point that she wouldn't have had anything to say anyway. Out of the corner of her eye she saw a few of the servants replacing plates on the sideboard and shooting her looks. She couldn't figure out what she'd done to annoy these people so much. Normally she'd have put on a big false front and swaggered around the place like she owned it, but she was here with Alistair as part of his entourage and felt cowed by the fact that her actions would surely reflect on him. While she sat and brooded, hands clasped together on the table before her until they were white knuckled she was startled when the incredibly warm hand came down on top of them, and she jerked back.

Alistair's happy face became concerned immediately "Sorry, I didn't mean to startle you." He reached out again for her hands and touching them, his eyebrows shot up. "You're freezing. Do you want something warm? Here, "he turned half away and motioned for one of the Keep's servants.

"No!" Hawke hissed it out as low and urgently as she could just as the woman turned and began to walk toward Alistair. He shot her a confused look and she just shook her head. "No I'm fine. I don't need anything."

She pulled her hands away and crossed her arms. Trying to warm her hands in her armpits. Alistair waved the servant away again with a smile and turned back toward Hawke. "Are you sure? You're sitting there shivering."

Muttering low Hawke shook her head again "There's no telling how much spit or worse would be in it." Ignoring the odd look he gave her she stood "I'm just going to go to bed, I think. I'll see you all in the morning."

Alistair watched her go, confused when she headed down a passage away from the Keep's guest rooms. He assumed that she was simply upset thinking about Anders. He wasn't sure how to help with that and he hadn't been much help so far anyway. He tried to put it out of his mind, assuming that she needed some time to herself for a while and that he wasn't going to encroach on it. Noodle had been laying under the table the whole evening and remained there, apparently eager to avoid whatever dark mood Hawke was in.

Hawke managed to get lost on the way back to her quarters and found herself wandering through a series of rooms lined with bookshelves. It wasn't so much a library as it was a long passageway with books like they'd run out of room in the real library and just decided to throw some shelves up in whatever available space there was. Vigil's Keep was uncomfortably similar to parts of Kirkwall and Hawke could well imagine Anders slowly going insane here. Running her fingers along the bindings she found that this collection of books was strange bordering on bizarre. History was placed along side interrogation and torture techniques. Flowery Orlesian prose lived in the spaces next to dense and multivaried versions of the Chant of Light. It was the library of a crazy person or the result of buying lots of books for show and never doing more with them beyond using them as decoration. It felt wrong and awful to Hawke.

She wasn't much of a scholar, but she appreciated books for what they offered. Seeing this sort of haphazard collection just struck a very sour note in her. Pulling down a thick atlas, Hawke set it on a side table and flipped through it. It was filled with maps of Thedas covering different eras, back to the time of the Tevinter's widespread rule, through the Orlesian occupation, the Qunari wars, and more. The shifting borders of countries were startling and a little disturbing for someone who had never lived in anything but a free Ferelden ruled by its own countrymen. After studying the maps for a while she made a note to come back here with Fenris and show these to him. He might enjoy that given his apparent thirst for understanding the history of Ferelden. He'd been soaking up the tidbits of information Alistair had provided about the history of rulership of the kingdom, eager to hear more about the fabled kings and queens Ferelden had bred.

Realizing that she was actually tired afterall now that the chill had abated somewhat she set off again looking for her room and only found it after what felt like an impossible number of wrong turns. She was unwilling to even look at, let alone ask directions of, those she passed. When she found the room, the contents of her pack had been further mangled, dumped onto the floor now instead of just strewn across the bed and one of her pauldrons had been scratched, very deliberately and deeply. Suddenly angry and with nowhere to vent it, she dug through her belongings for a heavy cloak and a thicker shirt, pulling them both on roughly and shoving everything back into her bag except a shirt which she used to lay her armor into and make a crude bundle out of. Even if she had to sleep on the battlements or pitch a tent beyond the walls there was just so much provocation she could take without poking back. If whoever was doing this didn't want to be found that was fine. But she wasn't going to just keep taking it for the sake of the king – especially since she was fairly certain that she hadn't done anything to deserve this kind of ire directly. Maybe they knew who she was. Maybe this was some kind of petty annoyance because they thought she was a mage killer or a mage defender, or whatever the most recent round of gossip was. She headed out of the keep proper, keeping to the shadows to avoid anyone seeing her leave, and went to the barracks instead. There at least she was likely to be left alone, even if it was out of the fact that she unnerved the guards. They were surprised to see her at the door and even more surprised when she asked if there was a bunk available for the night, but the guard who opened the door for her – Ser Aaron, she recalled, he'd spent most of his time on the journey here stationed at her cabin door – gave her a tentative smile and pointed toward the back of the room where there was some free space.

She knew what it might look like, but the King's guards were all well aware of her relationship with Alistair and all of them wisely held their tongue. Any woman sneaking into the barracks would be odd and it would surely be potentially damning to her reputation. But Hawke didn't feel like she had much of a reputation left to sully anyway. Removing only her boots and using her cloak as a blanket, she sank down onto the bed in the furthest corner, turning her face to the wall, and hoped for sleep without dreams.


	40. Chapter 40

Alistair awoke in his bed to the vague sense of movement in the room, causing him to go from sleep to full alertness with a speed born of years of sleeping in dangerous places that his time as king had not ground out of him. His sword was in his hand and he was up on his knees in the bed before he had truly looked around to find Zevran standing near the window, hands held up in mock surrender.

Through the self-satisfied smirk on his face, Zevran sighed "I see that when we get to Denerim I will need to train your guards in how to secure a room, yes?"

Rolling his eyes and tossing his sword down on the bed as he sat back down, Alistair growled at him "What do you want, Zevran? There are these things called doors and they're often made of wood, which makes this interesting and noticeable sound with you knock your knuckles against them. It's all the rage this "knocking" thing – you might try it."

"And miss the opportunity to spy the king of Ferelden practically cooing with contentment in his sleep? No, some things are too good to pass up."

Pulling the covers over his head as he fell back against his pillows, Alistair sighed. "You didn't answer my question – what do you want?"

"I want a great many things, your majesty. A decent meal, sunny beaches, a fine home filled with beautiful glittery things… but I assume you mean to ask why I am here in your room."

Alistair didn't reply, he just sighed again.

"First, I must ask – did you and your lady Champion have some sort of falling out?"

Sitting up quickly, Alistair pulled the covers back. "No, why? Has something happened?"

"Do not fret, Alistair. I am sure it is nothing. But, I arrived last night and, to avoid disturbing the keep proper I went to the guard barracks to find a place to sleep. Hawke was there sleeping on one of the bunks off by herself, still completely dressed." At Alistair's confused look, Zevran continued. "I assumed at first she had snuck in without anyone knowing she was there, but when I put a blanket over her one of your knights attempted to run me through. Very protective of his king's lady."

"Why in Thedas would she go sleep in the _barracks_? I'm not aware of anything happening. She went off to retire early last night and we didn't see any more of her. I assumed she was just tired after our trip here."

Alistair was utterly confused and tried to go through everything he could remember about his interactions with Hawke the previous day, worried that he'd done something or, worse, completely missed something that was troubling her. "She was rather odd around dinner. She came in freezing and when I tried to get her something warm to drink refused to have anything brought to her before she left. Before that… she sparred with Oghren, and asked some questions about Anders apparently. I thought perhaps she was simply brooding."

Zevran shrugged "It is entirely possible that it means nothing at all. Perhaps her quarters were not to her liking and she chose to sleep among a bunch of strange men for no reason at all." His tone was obviously dubious and Alistair agreed. "But no matter. Do not worry about it – I already found and told her tall elf friend and I am sure he is talking to her now."

"You don't think I should try to figure this out? If she's upset or something happened I need to know, Zevran."

Placatingly, Zevran held out his hands "And you will. But for now, allow her friend to see to it."

Alistair wasn't exactly pleased with the idea but he nodded "I wanted to try to catch Caron before he mysteriously disappeared to wherever it is he goes. I need to talk to him about the state of the Arling and I'm sure it will take some wearing him down. I have no desire to extend our stay here so it's best to handle that as soon as possible."

Zevran settled languidly into an armchair across the room. "I also wanted to tell you that I received some information about our mysterious kidnapper. I believe I know who he is, though where he is and what his intentions are is truly the larger issue here." Alistair waited patiently for Zevran to reveal his story. He knew that the elf preferred his own pace and build up to revealing information he'd gathered and busied himself with pulling on trousers and splashing his face with water from the basin. "I believe he is a Crow – now former Crow, though it seems few are aware that he is truly no longer in their order – named Lautone. The information that I have leads me to believe that he has… spurned… his former master within the Crows. But that he's managed somehow to remain hidden in plain sight. Most of his brethren believe he is still one of their number. It is… quite an achievement, let me tell you. Based on what I have heard of him from Hawke and from my own information, I think it is likely that this man will return and he is likely going to want more than money next time. Whether he truly developed some level of affection for Hawke is so far unclear. But there is something there – something he wants. And we all should be wary of it."

"Great – hunted by the Chantry and now hunted by a former Crow. At least the intentions of the Chantry seem clear enough." Alistair pulled on a belted tunic over the thin shift he'd been wearing. "What do you know of the man himself?"

"He is well trained – perhaps better trained than most Crows. He was a favorite of his master for his handsomeness and apparently prized for his skills as well. His master was… a jealous sort. Disliked sharing him, shall we say. He was part of a cell based in Orlais for a time, typically involved more in bard-business than assassination and he excels at infiltration. Unfortunately I do not believe I ever met him – though I do look forward to it." Zevran grinned wickedly at that last but Alistair couldn't quite tell if it was bloodlust or pride that fueled it.

Tying up his laces, Alistair grunted. "And no idea what his motivations toward Hawke might be?"

Zevran shrugged "It could be any number of things, Alistair. It could be a point of wounded pride for him to come after her or even some sort of misbegotten attraction. The way he treated her was not… common… for Crows. Playing with the emotions of the captive? Absolutely. Showing what appeared to be genuine affection? Absolutely not. It could be that Hawke simply got under his skin. I can attest to the fact myself that it happens."

Alistair nodded thoughtfully while he absorbed that. The idea of some lunatic with an obsession for Hawke and an assassin's training hunting her down made him feel irrationally protective. But he also knew that it wouldn't do any of them any good to overreact.

"I'm going to grab something to eat and then try to find Caron. Please, can you… can you check on her? I don't know how much space she needs and frankly I think I'm a terrible judge. If I had it my way she wouldn't leave my sight. But I think she'd end up stabbing me in the face if I actually tried that."

"Of course, Alistair. I have also gotten the assistance of your guard – the one who tried to murder me – in keeping an eye on her. He was… very keen. "

Alistair scowled at him "Are you implying something, Zevran?"

Affecting a look of wide eyed innocence, Zevran put a hand to his chest dramatically "Of course not, your Majesty. But it is not unheard of for knights to swear their allegiance and love to their noble charges. I simply… mention it."

Smirking ruefully, Alistair snorted "You never 'simply mention' anything, Zevran."

Chuckling, the elf rose from his chair and made his way out of the room behind the king "Ah, so you have been paying attention…"

…

A door closing somewhere nearby woke up Hawke, who spun out of bed and was on her feet with a dagger clutched in her hand even as she blinked and tried to clear her eyes. Fenris smirked at her from the door to the barracks "I thought waking you from over here would be prudent. I see I was right."

Stretching her shoulders and trying to wind down as she resheathed her dagger, Hawke simply nodded. Flopping back down on the bed she watched through one cracked eyelid as Fenris came closer, pulling over a chair as he came. "I brought you some food. The price of breakfast is an explanation." Using the seat of the chair as a makeshift table, Fenris deposited the small tray of bread and tea and porridge he'd brought before pushing her legs to the side so he could sit on the bed.

"I got tired, I found a bed. I slept." Hawke mumbled. She didn't think she could adequately explain the anger still bubbling through her especially since it felt too diffuse and directionless. She was simply angry and had no idea how to deal with it. She felt ridiculous for being in this situation in the first place. She didn't want to be anywhere but with Alistair, but she was clearly a complication and didn't his life have enough of those? This one evening of annoyance had brought back every crushing doubt she'd had about her role in his life and she hated that something so simple could make her feel unsure about him and their… relationship. Whatever _that_ was meant to be. They hadn't spoken about what would happen to her once they were in Denerim and she couldn't help but feel that it was because he was avoiding the topic.

Fenris shook his head and pushed the chair away from the bed with one foot. "Not good enough, Hawke. Explain and I'll pour you some tea."

Sighing dramatically, Hawke swung her legs around from behind Fenris and sat up on the bed. Fenris dutifully poured her some tea and handed it to her and she began to explain, quietly, what had happened. She'd become so used to this kind of debriefing of events while in Kirkwall that it felt almost natural to be spilling every minute detail she could remember. When she finished her story, they'd shared the bread and she'd at least poked meaningfully at the porridge though she didn't eat any of it.

Fenris was looking pensive as he ran a thumb over her damaged pauldron. "This, I think we can get fixed. The smith here should be able to buff it out. What concerns me is that I was put into a room in the same hall as Alistair. No one shuffled me off to the servants' quarters though they surely would have more reason to assume that I was a servant than you."

Hawke nodded "I have a feeling it was personal to someone. Probably Caron. But I don't think he was sneaking into the wing and tossing my belongings about like a child."

Fenris grunted in agreement.

Standing, Hawke had to admit that she was less angry and more intrigued now that she'd shared the burden. "Alright, I'm going to take this to the smith and see what he can do. I noticed one of the mail rings in the back had worked loose anyway, so the whole set could use some work."

Fenris nodded as he stood as well "Okay. I'll take the tray back up to the keep. Wait for me and we'll go together."

Barking out a laugh at him, Hawke put up her hands "Fenris, I don't need a guard."

"Several people here have gone out of their way to make you feel extremely unwelcome. You have no idea right now who they are. Unwelcome can easily turn into more if you aren't driven out by simple vandalism. I'm coming with you." His tone was of the immovable sort that she knew too well to try to argue with so she remained silent. "There is also one of Alistair's guards at the door. He insisted that he remain there since he knew you were here sleeping and he didn't feel it was right to leave you unprotected."

Hawke furrowed her brows at that, but just nodded "Okay, I'll change. Come and get me when you're ready." Frankly she just wanted to be out of this place, the sooner the better. So far her homecoming to Ferelden had few bright points and a lot of uncertainty.

Hawke quickly changed into a fresh shirt and then examined the rest of her armor to determine if there was anything else that might need to be looked at but was interrupted by a yelling noise and several loud pounds against the barracks door. Keeping a dagger in one hand, she moved to the door and cracked it open just enough to look out and found Ser Aaron foolishly trying to keep Noodle from getting in. As soon as the Mabari spotted Hawke he deftly bowled Ser Aaron over into the dirt and charged at her, wuffling happily and wiggling his hind quarters.

"I was fine, Noodle. I've been here all night. And the nice man that you just knocked over was just trying to protect me." As Ser Aaron brushed himself off, Hawke shot him an apologetic smile "I'm sorry, he doesn't really agree with "wait" or "not now" when it concerns me."

Ser Aaron shook his head "No, my lady, it was entirely my mistake trying to keep a mabari from his mistress. I just didn't know if you were up yet or… decent." He half bowed toward her and resumed his position flanking the door as Noodle pushed past her to sniff down every inch of the barracks.

Narrowing her eyes slightly, Hawke tilted her head to the side "You really do mean to guard me, don't you?"

Without looking at her, as if he were standing at attention in front of his captain, eyes straight forward and back straight, Ser Aaron barely inclined his head "Yes, my lady, I do."

"Well in that case" Hawke proffered her hand in a shake "My name is Marian Hawke. May I ask your given name?"

Aaron looked at her hand out of the corner of his eye but did not move to take it. "My name is Brendan, my lady."

"Do you know it's impolite to leave someone's hand waving in the air like this, Brendan?" Hawke's tone was still matter of fact.

"I am sorry, my lady, but it would not be proper for me to shake your hand." Ser Aaron was once again looking forward at attention.

"So that's how it's going to be then, Brendan?" Hawke couldn't help the smirk on her face. She appreciated that he hadn't backed down.

"Yes, my lady, I am afraid it is."

"And if I went to the king and complained about your behavior?"

"Then I will accept whatever punishment his majesty sees fit to mete out, my lady."

Hawke laughed at that. "Okay, you win, Brendan. But I'm going to keep trying."

"As you wish, my lady." And Hawke was sure that there was just a hint of a smile at the corner of his mouth. It would have to be good enough.

Leaving the door open, Hawke gathered up the armor and was just stepping out of the door when Fenris returned. They went down to the outer courtyard, Noodle following behind and, Hawke knew though she didn't look, Ser Aaron following even further behind. The smith felt that the repairs would be easy to accomplish and that he could have the full set back to her, everything tightened and polished by the next morning. She paid the man in advance and then asked questions about the keep itself. Who really ran things, who knew what was really going on? Varel was the clear and immediate answer. The smith was sure that if anyone knew what was going on in the keep, it was Varel, who seemed to have an eye on everything at all times.

Armed with that knowledge, Hawke and Fenris re-entered the keep. Fenris took the lead in asking a passing servant where he could find Seneshal Varel since Hawke was sure it would be unwise for her to appear as anything other than a tag-along. She made a show of paying attention only to Noodle while they made their way through the keep to the Seneshal's office, looking benign as possible. As they made their way past the throne room, Hawke saw Alistair talking with Caron. Both men stopped talking as they passed thanks to Noodle happily barking as soon as he saw the king. Alistair looked at Hawke with a worried expression so she winked at him. It was the most subtle way she should say 'I'm okay' with Caron looking on and it seemed to work. The worry evaporated from his face and he gave her a wink in return before both men resumed their conversation, Caron looking slightly aggrieved at the exchange he'd just witnessed.

"He doesn't like you." Fenris murmured as they continued down the hall.

"Aw, and I thought maybe icy glares were just part of some Orlesian courtship ritual."

They found Varel's office and Hawke knocked on the door. They heard a "Come in" from the other side and found Varel sitting at his desk which was covered in stacks of parchments in various piles that obviously passed as some sort of filing system. He looked slightly put out at having anyone knock on his door, but he always looked sort of put out, now that Hawke thought of it. It was hard to tell if that was his general countenance or not.

"Seneshal Varel, hello, I'm sorry to interrupt you, but I had a few questions and I've been assured that if I had questions about anything at all having to do with the day to day running of the keep and its staff you were absolutely the man to speak to."

Varel nodded and gestured toward a chair as he stood "How may I help you, my lady?" He remained standing until Hawke took a seat, a bit of mannerly niceness that she took note of.

"Well, I have a few questions about accommodations at the keep, specifically."

Varel winced and looked away "I thought that might be part of why you were here. Please know, it was never my intention to place you in the servant's quarters. Your room was being arranged directly next to ser Fenris's here but I was instructed to have it moved."

"By Commander Caron?" Hawke assumed he'd be the only one to have the authority to instruct Varel in such thing.

"Just so, my lady." Varel sighed "Please know that it was, as I told Commander Caron as well, the incorrect choice. No matter what his opinion of you, a guest of the king should be treated accordingly. He could have brought in in a corpse and asked that it be given a room for the night and we should have obliged with the best room we could provide."

Hawke smiled at that. "Well I hope I rank above a corpse, but I understand your meaning. I also want to let you know that I was not offended by the change in rooms. A bed is a bed and I was more than happy to sleep in the servants quarters… initially."

Varel looked up at her warily "Initially? I … received word that you had not actually slept in your room and your belongings were not left there. If something happened I would know so that I may handle the situation properly."

"Sorry to answer a question with a question, Ser Varel, but do you have any staff in the keep currently who would have a reason to… take out their anger on me or my belongings?"

Varel looked slightly baffled. "What I mean is – is there anyone that you know of who might have any special amount of dislike toward me for something they think I did? I know that the rumors from Kirkwall have spread far and wide and that they are usually incredibly inaccurate. It wouldn't be uncommon for someone to have the incorrect notion of me or my actions." Hawke remained carefully civil, cordial, even formal during all of this. Something told her that the best approach with Varel was one that afforded him great respect and one that was, above and beyond all else, well within the rules of proper conversation.

Varel rubbed his chin, thinking. "Unfortunately I think there may be. Can you tell me what may have happened?"

Hawke explained her clothing, the attitude of the staff, the intrusion into the bathing chamber where she was washing up, the damage done to her armor. Varel went from looking somewhat annoyed to outright enraged by the time she was done.

"I am shocked and frankly ashamed that this happened under my watch to a guest of the keep, my lady. I will have all of the servants assembled and questioned immediately."

Hawke shook her head slightly "I'm not sure that would be wise, Ser Varel. I think that they will simply close ranks and protect those who have actual grievances with me. I'd much rather confront just those responsible and deal with it directly. I am sure that this was the result of one or two people and not the entire staff. Servants will go along with the attitudes of their fellows and while most of those I met were not exactly cordial, they were little more than rude. I don't want to punish them for protecting their own."

"It is unacceptable for anyone on staff here to treat a guest of the Keep in the manner you describe, my lady. I am afraid they will all need to be reprimanded."

Hawke shrugged "I understand your position and I sympathize. If I may ask… do you think there is anyone who would hold a particular grudge against me? For any reason you can think of?"

Varel sighed as he sunk back in his chair. "Unfortunately I do. There is a maid in the Keep, her name is Sabine. She was very… enamored of Anders while he was here. Many of the women here were, as well as some of the men."

Hawke let the confusion show on her face "I take it he was a very different man than the one I knew. I mean…. Sure, he was handsome enough," Fenris let out an angry snort behind her, "but he was… standoffish, hard to approach, difficult, and taciturn. He was hardly what young women would swoon over, even on the rare occasion when he smiled or wasn't brooding and sullen."

"That doesn't sound at all like the Anders we knew here at the keep. Anders was flirtatious. Ridiculously so sometimes, the point where he was reprimanded by guards in Amaranthine, Commander Caron, and a few of the Arl's vassals for his advances on their servants, their daughters, or anything else that looked vaguely female. He was a good warden while he was here, but he was definitely… free with his affections."

"Did he actually have a relationship with this woman Sabine?" Hawke was sure that this was exactly the woman she was looking for and knowing as much as possible before they met would be important.

"Not that I am aware of. Even after his… _departure_… she continued to think of him in only the most glowing terms. She had a rather heated argument with one of the merchants in the outer courtyard when he insinuated that Anders had murdered wardens and guards alike. He of course was correct, but she refused to believe him."

"And now I show up and everyone assumes I had something to do with his… downfall." Hawke put the pieces together for Varel though it seems he already knew.

"Yes, I am afraid it makes her the most likely suspect." Varel looked honestly sad as he said this.

"I understand that you will need to do what you feel best to keep order among your staff, but please, will you allow me to speak to her directly first? I may be able to disabuse her of her illusions about Anders. And – even if I can't, perhaps allowing her a direct confrontation with me will help settle her rage some."

Varel seemed to think it over for a moment, carefully watching Hawke. "Yes, I think that would be fine. I know I don't need to say this, but I feel I must – it would be best if there were no bloodshed."

Hawke laughed "I have no intention of harming her. I just dislike having someone hate me so thoroughly without bothering to express it to me directly."

Varel nodded, apparently satisfied with that response. "She should be in the laundry this time of day. Any of the guards will be able to direct you."

"Thank you, ser Varel. I appreciate the candor with which you've spoken to me. I know that your Commander does not hold me in high enough regard to extend the same courtesy."

His eyebrows went up just a little, but Varel barely paused "The Commander doesn't hold much in high regard, it seems."

"Really? I thought it was just the people of his Arling and me. The idea that there might be more is a little astonishing. What must we all have done, I wonder." Hawke's tone had gained a little bit of an edge, making it clear that she was being highly sarcastic.

"What indeed." Varel sighed and leaned back. "It is apparently my lot in life to serve men like him." That comment alone was ripe with potential, so Hawke took a page from Varric's book when it came to encouraging people to spill their thoughts and feelings and simply nodded along, neutral and only affecting polite interest. It took only a moment for it to work.

"I understand that his Majesty is speaking to Commander Caron just now about the state of the refugees and farmlands in Amaranthine. Bann Eddlebreck has been here on a nearly weekly basis for the last year, pleading for assistance with the same issue and has gotten nowhere. Caron typically doesn't even hear the man out, pleading Warden Business that must take precedence. After the way he let Amaranthine burn during the darkspawn attacks – I do not pretend to know what the right decision was in that case – it would have been prudent to try to repair relations with those vassals he could. But he's done nothing of the sort."

Hawke was impressed by this wave of knowledge. Apparently all one needed to do was be polite and direct with Varel and he became an open book. She'd have to thank Varric for teaching her patience when seeking information.

"I asked his Majesty myself if it wasn't a conflict of interests to have the Warden Commander and the Arl of Amaranthine be the same man. The supposed political neutrality of Grey Wardens aside, I would think that what is prudent for their order is not always what is best for the Arling. And the people who have lived here since before the blight must surely feel the sting of those decisions." While Hawke remained carefully neutral, posing this as a philosophical question, she certainly was eager to see how Varel would react.

"I am of a mind with you. Even through the rule of the previous Arl there was never such a conflict of interests. He was a treacherous, vain, and twisted man – but he knew how to gain the loyalty of his vassals. I am sorry to say that the Arling may be better off with a tyrant Ferelden than a blind Orlesian."

"It's been several years since I've been in Ferelden. How is their opinion of Orlais?"

"It's as you'd expect, my lady. Little has changed in the years you've been gone. Enough Fereldens still live who remember the yoke of the Usurper's rule. While many are increasingly willing to trade with the country and speak of them in terms far separated from the events of the past, the lingering mistrust is something that will not leave us in a single generation. Unfortunately, Loghain and Howe did much to re-stoke the fires of hatred of Orlais during the blight and while their fear mongering proved completely false, there are always those who would follow the fear further than the reality."

Hawke was honestly impressed with Varel and proceeded to say so. "Ser Varel, it has been a long time since I've heard someone speak so eloquently and level headedly about such things. I was not born in a Ferelden under Orlesian rule, but my father was. He was young, but he remembered it and went to some length to make sure that my siblings and I understood just what sacrifices were made for our freedom." Here Hawke smiled "I think the fact that he was an apostate himself may have leant some weight to his need to educate us about freedom – but the lessons took nonetheless." Varel, thankfully, returned her smile at this. "He didn't teach us fear of Orlais or even fear of invasion, but he did teach us self-reliance. I would think that, after the blight, replacing the lost leaders with strong men and women of Ferelden would have been more important to the health of the country than installing the Grey Wardens."

"I understand and appreciate the reasoning of the king on this matter. At the time there was little choice and it was indeed important to have Grey Wardens in a prominent position of power within the country. Now, however… Now I'm not sure that it can be just any Grey Warden in the Arling of Amaranthine. I've become convinced that we need a Ferelden Grey Warden." Varel said this last quietly, as if he were only just thinking of it himself.

"You have given me much to think about, Ser Varel. I will leave you now to your work and I will go see to the breakfast needs of my mabari." Rising from her seat, Varel rose with her and extended his hand, which she took and shook. He'd been the only man so far willing to do so without looking at her oddly. It meant a lot to be deemed an equal, especially by this man in particular and she found herself oddly touched.

Smiling at him as she left, she gently closed the door behind her and walked with Fenris and Noodle toward the dining hall.

"You still surprise me, Hawke"

Caught up in her thoughts she was nearly startled at Fenris's low voice beside her "Hmm? How is that?"

"You slipped into refined and polite speech with that man as if you'd been raised with it. If you didn't go around constantly telling people your blood is lowly and common they'd never guess it from the way you comport yourself – well… when you choose to."

Hawke smirked at Fenris. "You met my mother. You know what she was like. You think she didn't drill that into my head every day of my life? Besides – rise or fall to the level of the person you're talking to. One of the first lessons my _father_ drilled into my head every day of my life."

In the dining hall, they found the buffet at one end nearly overflowing with food. Apparently that was one factor of dealing with Grey Wardens. They ate. And Alistair was there with Ogrhen doing just that, a ridiculous pile of food on his plate. Hawke put together two plates – a small snack for herself and a hearty plate of various breakfast meats for Noodle – before heading over to join Alistair. She caught his eye as she neared him and he grinned up at her with his mouth full of food. The very picture of a goofy, silly young man and nothing at all like the king he was supposed to be. Smiling at him indulgently she settled across from him and put the plate on the floor for Noodle.

Alistair held up one finger to her, the universal sign for "just a moment" and she watched, grinning at him as he chewed and chewed and chewed and only eventually swallowed and gasped out. "Hi!" before re-stuffing his mouth.

Hawke let out a loud laugh at that and he grinned up at her again, cheeks stuffed. Hawke felt his feet move around her ankle under the table, trapping hers between his as his eyes glittered at her. They both ate in silence that way, smiling at each other nearly constantly. Hawke saw the servants giving her looks near the buffet but she just didn't care. Not then. And if she had her way, she'd never care again.

…..

Several hours later after leaving Alistair in the yard with a group of very eager Warden recruits who were nearly worshipful of him, much to his chagrin, Hawke and Fenris snuck off to the laundry. It was easy enough to find the laundry itself and there was only one woman there, a young looking elf. Though honestly, Hawke had a difficult time determining the ages of elves. They seemed to have three stages – children, adults, and wizened elders. Anything in the "adult" range looked exactly the same to her. She was blonde and typically built for an elven woman, slender and delicate looking. Her hair was pulled up into a messy coiled braid on the back of her head as she moved linens around in a cauldron of bubbling water with what looked like an oar.

"Are you Sabine?" Hawke threw caution to the wind and just decided she wanted this over with.

The elven woman turned toward the question and she immediately scowled, showing her teeth in an ugly sneer. She turned, dropping the paddle she was using and put her fists on her hips but she didn't respond.

"I'm going to take that as a 'yes'. I'm Hawke. But you knew that. I came here to tell you that you will not touch my belongings again. If anyone else had decided to mangle my armor like you did, I'd be pulling off their fingers one by one at this point. However, Varel has asked that I not cause bloodshed, so I'll confine myself to the warning."

Sabine snorted "As if your word should mean anything. As if you are even worth the time it took to damage your precious armor."

Rolling her eyes, Hawke sighed "Obviously I'm worth the time if you took the time to damage it, yes?"

Sabine didn't reply, just stood there glowering.

"Look, I understand that you had some sort of obsession with Anders…"

Sabine barked out an indignant noise and walked closer "He loved me. I know he loved me. He didn't treat me like the rest of his whores because me… me he actually respected. The rest of them – oh yes they might have him for a night but I was going to be his forever. AND THEN YOU… YOU DESTROYED HIM. AND NOW HE'S OUT THERE ALONE!"

Hawke sounded bored when she replied "Funny – I knew him for 5 years and he never mentioned you. You or any other woman here in Ferelden. The only thing he mentioned missing about Ferelden was his cat."

Sabine blinked at her but the rage was still there, unwilling to hear reason. Fenris came forward then and Sabine backed up a few steps, obviously intimidated by him. It always amused Hawke to see the way people reacted to him.

His voice was low, growling, when he spoke. "I knew that abomination for nearly as long as Hawke. Anders cared about no one but himself. He WANTED to die, and he wanted Hawke to do it. The only tragedy here is that she chose not to give him his wish. If you were smart – which I doubt – you'd count yourself lucky that he left when he did. He brought only pain and death in his wake. I don't know who he was before he joined with that demon – but what he was after was nothing worth loving or knowing."

While Sabine digested that, Hawke continued "Anders may have been a good person at some point in his life. But everything that he was was gone by the time we parted ways. He joined with Justice, he murdered wardens and guards and fled to Kirkwall. I don't know what you were told about him or his time there. But trust me – the good he did on his own can never balance out the evil he did with that abomination. I am sorry that you had affection for him – but the man you knew was not the man I knew."

Sabine had begun to cry at that point and Hawke, who typically would have at least had a kind word for someone who had so clearly been misguided, just turned on her heel and left. She couldn't take watching someone gnash their teeth and wail over Anders. He didn't deserve it.

They made their way back out to the yard and Hawke watched as Alistair sparred with some of the warden recruits, most of whom, she noticed, moved away from her when she stood at the edge of the practice ring. It was clear that, while Alistair may have hated the attention, he loved this aspect of things – training with people, helping them learn, nurturing them. It was still strange to her that this uncommonly kind man had grown up a largely unwanted or forgotten child. In her experience a life like that created a bitter person but there was none of that in his nature that she could see. Watching him spar and laugh helped wash away the thoughts of Anders for a time. He caught her eye a few times between clashes and neither of them hid the fact that they were clearly watching each other.

After a while, Alistair asked the ring in general how many of them had ever sparred a mabari. After some general tittering they realized he was serious and of course, none of them had. Alistair grinned over at Hawke and she patted Noodle's back to let him know he could go to Alistair. He'd been laid out on his belly watching the goings on like a cat watches birds. Noodle barked once as he charged off into the ring, working startled yelps out of several of the nearby recruits. The warhound happily circled Alistair a few times before putting on his best ready-stance. He truly did look intimidating if Hawke could separate his fighting demeanor from the squirming, silly dog she often shared a bed with.

It took a while for any of the assembled men to volunteer, but one well-placed accusation from Fenris, casting aspersions on the supposed prowess and courage of the Grey Wardens and they were all lining up. Most of them had no idea what to do when faced with a Mabari and it was comical for the most part since Noodle was feeling more playful than anything else. Hawke had watched him mow down waves of guards in Kirkwall on numerous occasions and he was an excellent coach for learning how to stay on your feet when something enormous suddenly barreled into you. A few of the recruits who had had enough of being knocked to the ground were sitting out what had become a battle royale, with Noodle surrounded by no fewer than six men all attempting to wrestle him. The recruits who were watching eventually drifted toward Hawke and began tentatively asking her questions about Kirkwall, about Noodle, and about the King. It was clear that they had some rather large misconceptions about why she was there and she was sure she knew who she could blame for that, especially after seeing the Warden-Commander glowering at her from a nearby doorway.

….…..

After watching Noodle pound recruits into the dirt and enjoying it for far longer than he really should have, Alistair cleaned up for dinner. Realizing that this might be one of the few times on this trip he'd have the opportunity to do so until they reached Denerim, he made some arrangements with one of the stewards who had been assigned to see to the needs of the King's party. After washing and changing, he had one of his guards go hunt down Hawke and ask her to join him in his rooms. The wait seemed interminable. Vigil's Keep was a big place and he hadn't had an opportunity to actually speak with her much that day so she could have ensconced herself nearly anywhere within the sprawling labyrinth of rooms and floors. She'd seemed better, he thought. But he wanted to have some time with her just to himself, as selfish as that seemed even in his own mind. They would be surrounded by people on the way back to Denerim and once they were back he was sure that his attention would need to go toward any number of things that had happened in his absence. This suddenly felt like time he could steal to have just with her and he realized that being back in Ferelden must be jarring. He wanted to ask her a million things – about Anders, about Caron, about what in blazes had happened to drive her to the barracks. But more than that he just wanted to have time with her. Time was something Alistair felt he had too little of.

A knock at the door pulled him out of his spiraling thoughts and the nervous pacing he'd begun without fully being aware of it. He darted to the door and opened it to find Hawke there, grinning at him in the same belted tunic and leggings she'd worn earlier, still dusty from the practice yard.

"A summons or a request? We still haven't figured that one out quite yet, have we?"

Smiling back, he gestured for her to enter "For you, it's always a request. Of course you haven't disappointed me yet by turning one down so we'll see if I ever have to escalate things to official summons levels. It could happen."

He was just about to close the door as he watched her look around the room when a cleared throat behind him stopped him short. "Ah! Dinner is here!" He let in the steward with the small wave of servants in this wake and allowed them to transform the table in the room into a dining table for two, replete with some sort of ornate floral centerpiece that he certainly hadn't asked for, but that the steward had apparently deemed appropriate. Candles were lit, glasses were put out, wine was poured, dishes were placed. It was quite a production and both Hawke and Alistair stood at the edges looking slightly out of place and a little wary of the whole proceeding. When finally the steward seemed satisfied, he waved the servants out and bowed low at the door, closing it behind himself as he left.

In the suddenly empty room, they stood frozen for a moment looking at each other before they both began to laugh.

"Well, that was a little more ridiculous than I had been expecting." Alistair finally relaxed and pulled out a chair for Hawke, who tentatively sunk into it.

"I didn't know I'd be getting dinner or I might have come sooner."

Alistair sat down across from her "You _did_ keep me waiting. What were you getting up do?"

Lifting her glass and taking a sip she shrugged "I was in one of the many libraries in this place. Either whoever owned this place before the Wardens took over had the most eccentric categorization process I've ever encountered or they just arranged the books on the shelves according to their whim. It isn't even decorative as there is no discernible color pattern, book size or anything else involved."

Grimacing slightly, Alistair took a sip from his own glass "Rendon Howe was an eccentric, clearly deranged man."

Eyes opening wide Hawke stared at him for a moment. "Howe? As in Nathaniel and Delilah Howe? I … I hadn't realized this was _his_ arling."

"He didn't tell you? I thought you two were bossom pals."

With a smirk Hawke scoffed at him "We hardly shared every detail of our lives with each other, Alistair. There weren't a lot of conversations about his family outside of Delilah and his nephew. So – this was where Nathaniel lived before he went off to the Free Marches?" She looked around the room as if she were seeing the place in a whole new light.

"Yes, fortunately for him he wasn't in Ferelden during the blight, but the rest of the Howe's suffered for the insanity of their father."

"Well, then I'm glad he wasn't. He's a good man from what I've seen of him." Alistair couldn't help the petulant look that crept onto his face. "You disagree?"

"No, not at all. You just seemed rather… fond… of him in your letters."

Hawke let out a laugh at that, her head tilted back, hand coming down on the table and jarring the silver "You're actually jealous. That's just… that's…"

"What? It's what?" Alistair was feeling peevish now. "Go on, spit it out."

"It's ridiculous. King Alistair Theirin is jealous of a houseguest I had for two weeks a year ago and who I haven't seen and only rarely heard from since." Hawke was beaming at him merrily now. Reaching a foot out under the table she jostled his leg. "Noblemen were sending me jewelry and marriage proposals for months and you're discomfited by a largely penniless Grey Warden without even his family name to fall back on. Really, Alistair. "

When it was put like that, Alistair felt a little foolish "You don't exactly strike me as someone who is interested in a man's prospects or wealth, Hawke. You certainly have enough of your own."

"And you'd be right, I'm not interested in that. But then I don't need to be because I'm only interested in one man." She punctuated her statement with another push to his leg and a long pull on her wine glass.

That shut him right up and he cast around for another topic before the silence got awkward. "So, were you sneaking off to spend the evening with my guards as one of the keep's chambermaids informed me or was there something else?"

"I wondered how long it would take for that rumor to start. No, I just needed a bed that wasn't in the servant's quarters." At his confused look, she continued "Caron had Varel send me to the servant's quarters to sleep. Varel explained the whole thing earlier. I got harassed by an angry servant and her friends and decided that I'd rather sleep among your guards than continue to put up with it. That's the short version."

"I'm hoping there was some fantastically good reason for putting you in the servant's quarters that Caron just… failed to mention to me while we talked nearly all morning."

Hawke shrugged "You'd have to ask him. It's clear he dislikes me – I didn't think he'd be petty about it, but then I don't really know him. He apparently also told some of the recruits that I had "undue influence" over the king."

Scowling at that, Alistair shook his head "He really does go too far. I knew he was prickly but I've put up with it for a number of reasons. Reasons that are swiftly becoming moot points, I believe."

Hawke had a curious look on her face but said nothing. Alistiar mused that it was an odd display of self-restraint on her part. He cut off the conversation there and served her food, playfully smacking her hands when she went to intercept him. They ate in pleasant silence for a time, occasionally remarking on the food or the wine, but never getting back into a full conversation. Alistair was often keen to fill any and all silences with chatter, but not this one. He found it was somehow comforting to just sit there together. Once they'd finished eating, they both reclined and drank and smiled across at each other.

"So what gems of information did you dig up in the library? Were you looking for anything in particular?"

"I was showing Fenris an atlas I found with a variety of maps of the borders of Ferelden across the ages. Or rather I was showing it to him until he decided that my pointing things out was annoying and he snatched it away from me. He does apparently find it rather fascinating that we were all Avvarian hill folk not so long ago. His only real societal points of reference though are Tevinter, Seheron, and Kirkwall. So I imagine there is a lot of about Ferelden that will strike him as odd."

Alistair just nodded knowingly. He'd had many discussions with nobles from other countries about the advancement of Ferelden in such a short span of time as compared to their own countries' long slow ascent. Hawke continued "I was also reading a history of the rebellion, written from an Orlesian perspective. Apparently one of the Orlesian lords who was given several landholdings here was able to escape sometime during the war and made it back to Orlais to write the thing. It's illuminating, to say the least."

"Let me guess, a lot of "barbarians" and "peasants" and so forth."

"Actually fewer than you might think. Fewer than I was expecting as well. It seems that Meghren wasn't well loved by even the Orlesians he had shipped over to do his bidding. They kowtowed out of fear of the Emperor only. The way this Orlesian lord told it he and many of his fellows were actually relieved when the rebel army began to gain momentum. For all the land and resources gained by overthrowing Brandel, Fereldens never really came to heel the way we were expected to. We cost the Empire more in troops and coin and, in some cases, bribes to Orlesian lords to head to Ferelden to help legitimize Meghren's rule than we were eventually worth. The typical Orlesian tactics for control – squeezing the populace, raising taxes, scaring the common people – didn't work here. Fereldens have a funny concept that their rulers should be good at ruling and make their lives better as opposed to worse. It's no wonder to me that Celene would seek out other ways to gain a foothold here and clearly shy away from the concept of invasion – history has proven that we aren't worth the trouble of invading."

Alistair listened, pleasantly surprised. "It never occurred to me that you were a great lover of history."

Smiling mischievously, Hawke looked up at him through her lashes. "Did you think I just bought all the books in my library for show? I'm not much of a scholar – I'll give you that. I don't have the patience. But we only had a few books when I was growing up and my father treated them with a reverence bordering on the religious. I guess it made an impression." She shrugged but Alistair could see that it wasn't really a light comment. He was also curious about something himself.

"What did this Orlesian nobleman have to say about Maric?"

"What you'd expect, really. That he wasn't the rightful ruler, that he was unworthy of the throne. But then after it was assumed he was dead and it turned out he wasn't, the tone changed. It was clear that Meghren had lied about the Prince's death and the noblemen were worried. Mainly because lying about it meant that Meghren and his advisors were worried. Details from within the court are of course incredibly vague. But after Maric's supposed rise from the dead they feared him. I don't think they ever really respected him – but for the leader of a rebel army I would think that fear was probably better than respect."

Hawke took a long drink, thinking for a moment before continuing. "The people seemed to love him. Well and truly love him. It helped that he looked angelic – like some sort of Andrastian ideal of goodness with the golden hair and the blue eyes. He was young and handsome and brave and thoroughly Ferelden. I imagine that he must have seemed Maker-sent after the oppression of the Usurper."

Alistair absorbed that. He still tried not to think too much about Maric – about his father – but it was difficult not to. In the first year of his rule all he'd heard were comparisons to the two prior kings, for good and ill. Growing up, his father had been a shadow he'd wished he could escape but never quite managed it. He thought that having his own purpose in the Wardens would help, but then the Blight changed everything. While the blatant comparisons to Maric had dwindled over the years as Alistair asserted his own unique style of rule, he wondered if the shadow of his father's life would ever truly leave him. He wondered if that's how it was with all fathers. He wondered if that's how it was for Hawke.

Hawke brought him out of his thoughts "What I found most interesting, however, were the mentions of the involvement of the Chantry in Meghren's rule. Did you know that the Grand Cleric of Ferelden was his close advisor? She was the main voice controlling the people for a time, proclaiming the Maker's will in Meghren's rule. And then suddenly she changed her mind – declared Maric the true ruler of Ferelden and Meghren a Usurper. I have some level of… interest… in the way of the Chantry influences policy." She smiled at him, but it was a hollow smile.

"Unfortunately the amount of influence they still hold here is great. I've attempted on numerous occasions to change things – especially when it comes to the Circle of Magi – but have met with staunch resistance. The Grand Cleric is not exactly fond of me."

"I can't imagine why. You were conscripted away from her clutches, you overthrew the "Maker chosen ruler" of Ferelden, took the crown yourself, and then promptly declared that mages shouldn't be under Chantry control anymore. Seems such a little thing."

Alistair chuckled at her "Yes, well I wasn't exactly being prudent when I made that announcement. It was at Solona's funeral. The Chantry told me in no uncertain terms that I would not get my way. And since then I've quietly flauted their rules. I … I hadn't really talked about this much, but…" Alistair scooted forward and dropped his voice, clearly uncomfortable with saying anything about it aloud, "The Chantry is still sending lyrium to the circle here for the Templars, but only a handful are still taking it. They've all been weaned off. Greagoir and Irving have rewritten the rules. Families can visit, Templars can actually learn about the magic their charges are using, are encouraged to even. The whole tenor of the place has changed. It's not open rebellion, just a quiet agreement to do things our own way. But it's something. Now, when the Chantry finds out – and I know they will, eventually – we'll have to deal with their anger. But I've gained tacit support from our Grand Cleric as well. Unofficially of course. She'll warn me when the troubles start."

Hawke was honestly floored. Impressed and astonished and more than a little jealous. "I couldn't even get the bastards to agree that perhaps we should rebuild the city at large before we throw all our resources into the Chantry and a new Gallows and you have managed to charm a Grand Cleric into rewriting hundreds of years of policy."

"Well you're making it sound more impressive than it is. I've been needling Gregoir about this for five years now. He finally just gave in. And we didn't "get" anything… we're just lying about it."

Hawke smiled at him "You don't have to be modest to save my ego, Alistair. I'm thoroughly impressed and you should be proud. I… I'd love to see it. To think that the circle my father escaped might be the first to come to its senses…"

Alistair nudged her leg under the table as she had his. "If it wasn't in exactly the opposite direction I need to go, I'd set out tomorrow. But I'll take you, I promise."

Hawke nodded. "So the madness of Kirkwall hasn't spread to Ferelden yet." Hawke was suddenly very serious and Alistiar didn't diminish it by pretending they were talking about something that he could be flippant about.

"No, it hasn't. In fact, there has been an influx of mages from other circles around Thedas – circles that have fallen to screams of freedom that these mages want nothing to do with. Apparently Ferelden has become a haven for those mages who do not seek revolution. It was one of the reasons Greagoir and Irving were finally willing to see reason."

"Kirkwall was different, Alistair. I know that it will be difficult for people to believe me – but it was different. There were more and more tranquil every day, The Knight- Commander kept one as a personal secretary. There was a knight – Ser Alric – who wanted to begin a systematic branding of all the mages in the circle. It seemed that whatever it was in Kirkwall that drove mages to desperate measures drove the Templars just as much. Hearing Meredith invoke the name of the Maker over her actions again and again was… horrifying."

Alistair reached across the table and laid a hand over Hawke's. "You know," she continued, "That is one thing that I agreed with Anders about. I think that the Chantry has been misinterpreting Andraste's words practically since the moment they were spoken."

"Definitely don't tell anyone in the Chantry hear you say that."

Hawke smiled "I don't plan on it. But I have to think I'm right about this. "Magic is meant to serve man never to rule over him." - That's the entire basis upon which the Circle and the Templars were founded. Andraste said that in reference the Tevinter Imperium, a society of mages that were responsible for the darkspawn, slavery that continues to this day, and horrible acts committed upon the people of Thedas in the name of power and the glory of magic. She was right to condemn them. But what Anders did in his clinic on a daily basis – that was serving man. Bethanny never hurt a soul in her life unless she had no other choice and my father was the same. Yet they were hunted and wanted simply for existing. I absolutely cannot believe that the Maker would continue to allow people to be born with magic if it were such an aberration in his eyes."

"But the argument they make in return – not that I agree with them – is that the Maker abandoned his children after the Magisters invaded the Golden City. We are to prove we are worthy of his love before he will return to us."

"Have you ever thought," Hawke leaned forward, nearly whispering now but with an intensity to her gaze, "that perhaps it's the Chantry itself preventing us from knowing how to be worthy? Do you think the Divine in Orlais would have any power at all were the Maker to truly return? If we could each of us, each lowly soul, speak to the Maker directly why would we need the priests of the Chantry to interpret and pray on our behalf? I can't imagine that the Chantry would _welcome_ the return of the Maker."

Alistair smiled at her "You're beautiful when you're blaspheming, Hawke."

"Bah", she waved a hand at him as she sat back. "Too much time to myself on Isabela's ship and I caught myself thinking about all sorts of things. I'm sure it doesn't help that I know I'm going to get dragged off to the Chantry at some point to pay for whatever they think it is I've done."

Alistair, suddenly serious, leaned toward her "That will not happen. They aren't going to drag you off anywhere and from what I can tell you've already paid more than enough for the crimes they imagine you've committed. You did nothing wrong, Marian."

"Well then, just dash off a note to the Divine letting her know you've decided that and I'm sure she'll take your word for it." She was sarcastic, but it was without bite.

"I may just do that." He smiled at her. "Let's talk about something else. I asked you here because I don't know when we'll get any appreciable amount of time in private and I don't want to spend the night discussing things that are worrying both of us. We'll have plenty of time for that."

Hawke nodded "Okay, you choose the topic and we'll discuss it. Whatever you want to talk about." The speed with which she agreed made it clear to Alistair that she'd been wary of delving too far into that particular pool of worry as well.

They discussed good memories from their childhoods, which for both of them were ephemeral and odd and sometimes took quite a bit of explaining to put into context. They moved on to talking about silly customs they'd both encountered in other countries. Eventually the topic of the blight came up and Alistair spent a great deal of time recounting the basic stories of the blight from his own perspective as well as explaining each of his companions and what they were like.

"You know, Varric told me there was a rumor that you had been involved with Lelianna." Her tone was light but she peered at him out of the corner of her eye in a way that clearly marked her suspicions.

Alistair laughed "No, Lelianna and I were never involved. Well – Okay, maybe that's not strictly true."

"Oh?"

"Well," Alistair felt himself blushing, "It's complicated. I was … very naïve. And she came to us with this ridiculous story about a dream that she thought was a vision from the Maker told her to come and find us and join us against the Blight. It was barking mad. This chantry sister in Lothering with an Orlesian accent claiming to the last two Grey Wardens in Ferelden that the Maker sent her. But after she joined in a fight against some bandits at the edges of the town we realized that we could use someone of her skills. So she joined us."

"She was very pretty – you met her – and very outwardly sweet. She seemed to care a great deal about people and doing the right thing. But she also seemed sad in a way that made me feel sorry for her. Anyway – I guess you could say I developed a… crush… on her. I gave her a flower – a rose I'd found in Lothering. It was silly, really, and I was foolish. I… I kissed her. And she seemed to respond to it, to want it as well, but then she told me that she didn't feel the same way and that was that. She never did get rid of the rose though. Every once in a while in camp I'd see that she'd kept it, pressed in a book. We remained friends, even after the blight. It was… hard… that first year especially. I was sure that she was absolutely the person I should be with. It took time for that feeling to leave. And though we were friends, after she went to work with the Divine I didn't hear from her much. It's only because you met her in Kirkwall that I even knew she was still with the Divine."

"So you've always had a fascination with women of dubious backgrounds, then." Hawke was smirking at him. "For what it's worth – she was the foolish one. Granted, I think a cask of ale was a better gift than a rose, but I can picture you younger, stammering, blushing. You would have been difficult to resist."

"Yes, well, you are in the minority in that opinion obviously." He looked at his hands a moment. "Was there really a rumor that Lelianna and I were together? How would Varric have even found that out?"

"I lied." Alistair's head jerked up and Hawke laughed. "I had a feeling and I was just fishing for information. You soften when you talk about her in a way you don't when you're talking about your other companions from the Blight."

"Huh, well. I'll have to keep in mind how tricky you are." Alistiar stood and took Hawke's hands, pulling her to her feet. "I don't want to have any secrets from you. You can just ask anything outright and I'll tell you. I spent a great deal of time denying my reality, thinking I could trick people into looking at me the way I wanted them to. It never worked. And with you – I want you to simply know and to never have to wonder."

Hawke went up on her toes and put her arms around his neck "I do know, Alistair. There is no doubt."

He held her close for a moment and then picked her up and spun her for a second, causing her to yelp. Setting her back down, he pulled back "Let's go for a walk. I haven't been up to the battlements yet and I remember they have a pretty fantastic view."

With her hand tucked into his elbow, they made their way through the keep and up several floors. Staring out across the fields and forests surrounding the keep Alistair was struck by the sense that this was his country, this was his land, and there were his people. Instead of filling him with the usual dread and weight of duty he felt hopeful and had to wonder if it had more than a little to do with the woman staring out across the vista with him, a small smile on her face and fond eyes that followed every dip and valley of the land she'd wanted nothing more than to return to for so long.

…

The next day, Hawke woke to the sounds of industry in the halls. Alistair had told her they'd be leaving that morning. She could hear stewards and chambermaids and valets all scurrying around, discussing arrangements, and it made her want to lock the door and hide in the crisp sheets for a few more hours.

After her walk with Alistair he'd brought her back to this room directly across the hall from his where there had been a bath, still steaming, waiting for her along with a wide variety of oils and soaps. It was a simple metal tub and not nearly as luxurious as her massive stone tub in Kirkwall, but seeing that Alistair had remembered her extreme fondness for baths made her a little giddy. She'd thrown her arms around him and planted little kisses all over his face in glee before running to the tub and dipping a hand in to see just how hot the water was. He'd laughed and entered the room long enough to give her a long hug and a lingering, but chaste, kiss before retreating and leaving her to her bath and her bed. She'd only opened the door again that night to let in a whining Noodle who promptly took up most of the bed.

Rolling over and burying her face into Noodle's neck as the warhound let out a sleepy huff, she decided that she didn't need to be up just yet. She was drifting back into a light hazy sleep when a knock at the door followed by it being unceremoniously thrown open jolted her out of it. Fenris strode in with her armor bundled together in his arms.

"You are the laziest person I've ever met, Hawke. It's nearly mid-day." Fenris began assembling the armor on the stand in the room but Hawke just grumbled and pulled the covers over her head, wiggling down until she was little more than a tight lump in the middle of the very middle of the mattress. That only lasted for a few moments before Fenris snatched all of the covers and sheets off of her completely, flipping them overtop of Noodle who didn't seem to notice or care.

Hawke sat up then, glaring daggers at Fenris. "FINE. I'm up. Leave."

"No, get dressed. I know better than to leave you. You'll just lock the door and fall back asleep."

Hawke let out a disgruntled moan, but he was right. She'd been able to get him to leave her just twice before in this state and both times she'd locked the door. Once that turncoat Bodahn had unlocked the door for him. The other time he'd scaled the wall outside her window and woken her by shoving his freezing cold gauntlets under the sheets with her. Why he took such a simple deception so personally she wasn't sure, but she wouldn't test it again.

She dressed and then packed up her things, including her armor and weapons, pulling the chest and her pack out to the hall to rest beside the door to be gathered and put into the king's wagon. Still grumpy, but only mostly for show, she and Noodle followed Fenris through the keep and into the dining hall where she made up plates out of what was being laid out for a mid-day meal and made off with a whole pot of tea. There were few others in the dining hall at the time of day and Fenris refused to join her, so she sat talking to Noodle as they both ate and she got as much tea as possible into her stomach to clear away the last of sleep's cobwebs.

It wasn't long until Ser Aaron appeared. She grinned at the man who had quickly become her personal keeper. She still wasn't sure if this was his decision or not and he refused to say whenever she asked. Ser Aaron bowed slightly at the end of his approach. "The king has asked that I come find you to tell you that we are leaving shortly. If you have anything else you need arranged before we head out I am to assist you."

"Just finishing breakfast and we'll be ready to go. I assume we're meeting in the courtyard?"

"Yes, my lady."

"Okay, we will be there soon, Brendan." And there, Hawke was sure of it this time, just a hint of a grin. Oh his captain would not be pleased with that, but it pleased Hawke enormously. She wasn't sure if this constant given-name battle would continue to amuse her, but so far it was doing a good job. Once Noodle's plate was clean, she headed out to the courtyard, flanked by her knight and her dog. The wagon was loaded and most of the king's guards were assembled in something that looked like rough ranks but without as much formality. Fenris stood talking to Alistair, and Zevran, who she hadn't seen at all since the ship, was leaning casually against the side of the wagon.

"I didn't keep everyone waiting did I?"

"No, not at all, "Alistair waved the thought away. "I was trying to keep up with protocol and wait for Commander Caron to see us off but I think he's decided to pout instead." Alistair turned and waved toward Varel, who came over quickly and shamefaced. "I think we'll be leaving now, Seneshal. I've waited as long as I'm willing."

Varel bowed "Of course your majesty. I am so sorry that Commander Caron could not see you off himself and I apologize again for the delay this has caused you."

"Please give Warden Commander Caron my regards, Varel. I look forward to your reports in the coming weeks."

"Absolutely, your majesty." Varel bowed low and then turned, heading back into the keep as the procession set to leave.

"I feel like I missed something." Hawke looked between Varel's retreating back and Alistair a few times, trying to piece it together. Zevran spoke up before Alistair did, however.

"Warden Commander Caron is Arl of Amaranthine no more, my dear. It seems his majesty was displeased with the former Arl's service to the crown and he has seen fit to demote him."

"I haven't demoted him – I can't remove his commander status, after all. I've simply taken away a title he claimed to never want in the first place."

Eyebrows raised, Hawke took a moment to absorb that. "So you'll be appointing a new Arl?"

"Yes. Varel and I had a long discussion about it this morning and he was adamant about Amaranthine's need for a Ferelden Grey Warden in the Arl's seat." Cutting his eyes at Hawke as he began to follow the wagon of supplies that acted as part of the vanguard of their procession, Alistair smirked just a bit. "He told me that he'd always thought that it was important, but that recent discussions he'd been having had pushed him to finally give voice to his opinion. Though he begged off telling me exactly who he'd been talking to."

Hawke grinned to herself, head down slightly. She didn't feel bad at all about getting Caron ousted. He was a lousy Arl. And he was obviously the sort of man who was comfortable hating her thoroughly but never having the nerve to just confront her about it. To her mind, that made him less than worthless. "Do you know who you might replace Caron with?"

"I'm not sure yet. I was hoping that I might convince whoever Varel spoke with to also provide me with their advice and counsel. It's just a shame he never told me."

"That certainly is a shame, your majesty."

Both of them grinning without looking at each other, arms brushing as they walked, they moved down the road that would take them to the Pilgrim's Path and then onward to Denerim.

...

_When I first mapped all this out, this was my "end of book one". I'm not going to break it off into a different story, though, because that can be a pain for readers. My next "book" it only written in fragments - and it's coming in at over 100K words. So there is PLENTY more to the story, lots of intrigue, lots of loops to be thrown. Given that the beginning of all of it is done, I'm just going to start diving into chapters and posting. I make no promises about the schedule, but I'll try not to leave any big gaps since I know *I* have a hard time keeping track of stories when there are big pauses between chapters going up. _

_I ADORE all the readers, all the feedback. You guys have helped immensely in keeping me motivated to continue this behemoth story and assured me when I posted something I was less than thrilled with. You've also made my writer friends really annoyed at me that I'm doing free fan fic and not paid original stuff. But I'm a Bioware dweeb and I just want to share the dweebiness!_


	41. Chapter 41

As Hawke, Alistair, Fenris, Zevran, and the rest of the king's entourage travelled south toward Denerim, they encountered little resistance and only passing merchants making their way north. Chatter among the group of travellers came and went in bursts, but was generally the sort of lighthearted banter that people kept to while trudging across the countryside, as if speaking of bad things brought them on. Eventually, Hawke and Zevran settled into a tit for tat relationship of story telling. Zevran shared one of his, often ridiculous, stories of assasinations and intrigue and Hawke reciprocated with some story from her time in Kirkwall. Alistair made sure to walk a little closer during Hawke's stories. While some of them were familiar to him already, he noted that there were details that had been left out for his benefit that she more readily shared with Zevran. At first he was surprised to realize how much she had edited things when sharing them with him but then came to realize that nearly everything she'd omitted fell into the category of "gory details", blow by blow descriptions of lies she'd told, people she'd killed, situations she'd manipulated, and so on. She hadn't so much as lied to him or only told him the good parts, but she had tended to gloss over details such as just how many people died in a particular fight or just how she had reacted when someone who didn't deserve it begged for mercy. For instance, he found out exactly what had happened to that dock worker who had tried to take advantage of her over a card game. While it was probably not what he would have done in the situation, he could see the value in leaving someone permanently maimed as a reminder of how not to treat a woman. What it drove home to him more than anything else was that, had he met Hawke even a few years earlier he might have been completely scandalized by these details. But his time as king had changed his opinions greatly about what constituted a good person or a noble deed. And more than that – Hawke didn't trust that he wouldn't judge her for who she was.

Truthfully, the simple fact that Hawke seemed unashamed by what she'd done spoke volumes to him. If the things she did that she was unwilling to discuss with him were truly aggregious or something to be ashamed of, he doubted that she'd be sharing them so openly with Zevran. He wanted to let her know that he was okay with her past – but how do you say "I am okay with your own particular level of badness" to someone without it coming out as an insult? He also realized that she must think of him as some paragon who would be affronted at these bits of information, but deemed Zevran safe enough to tell because, well, he was an assassin – would she really run the risk of putting him off with a true accounting of her exploits? He'd have to find some way to make it clear that, while he didn't need every small detail of everything she'd done and lived through – he also wouldn't mind knowing.

At night they camped and his guards made a point of setting up his large "king" tent before he could protest so he found himself sleeping in something akin to an actual bed while everyone else squeezed into small tents and bed rolls. It always made him feel awkward and as a result he tended to stay up far later than everyone else so that he could sneak off to his tent once the vast majority of them had already gone to sleep. This was complicated by the fact that Zevran and Fenris had begun playing cards at night around the fire. They were both so incredibly competitive and prideful that the games seemed to go on forever. Alistair found himself staring into the flames nearly nodding off on the third night they were travelling. They would probably make Denerim the next day if they travelled early enough and the weather was favorable. From the forest behind him he heard a snapping noise and an incredibly loud voice yell out "MAKER'S PISS". Zevran, Fenris, and Alistair were all instantly on their feet, with Zevran already silently moving into the trees before Alistair could decide exactly where he should be looking.

A few moments after Zevran disappeared into the tree line the same voice called out "Don't _touch_ it!" Alistair and Fenris shared a look. Fenris said, just barely above a whisper, "Hawke". More noise later, steps were clearly moving out toward them. Zevran was supporting Hawke as she limped heavily and winced, hissing through her teeth with each step. Alistair rushed forward and lifted Hawke completely off her feet, scooping her up against his chest and carrying her over to a log near the fire. "What happened?"

Zevran was kneeling in front of her, unlacing her boot carefully but swiftly as Hawke explained. "I woke up and was thirsty. My waterskin was empty and I decided to refill it at the creek and was – AHHH MAKER'S HAIRY ASSHOLE" Zevran had pulled off her boot. Her ankle was already dark purple and swollen to twice its usual size.

"She stepped in a hole. A deep one." Zevran prodded gently at the swollen ankle causing Hawke to hiss through her teeth again and reflexively smack him on the head. Zevran scowled up at her "And she dropped her water skin. I fear you would make a poor assassin, my Champion."

"And I fear your face will never be the same again if you don't stop poking at me."

Zevran grasped her calf and held her leg up so that there was no weight on her foot. "Try to move it. We need to see if you broke anything in your daring attempt at slaking your thirst."

Wincing, Hawke very slightly rolled her ankle. She clenched her eyes closed and breathed in and out in quick pants, but worked her ankle around in a complete circle. "Good – you just sprained it. It may be the worst sprain I've ever seen, but it will heal without having to set it. Alistair is far better at field dressings than I am so I will leave this to him." Fenris and Zevran immediately went back to their interrupted card game as Noodle, who had apparently still been sleeping in Hawke's tent came out to find his mistress.

Hawke leaned forward and cradled her face in her hands while Alistair asked one of the patrolling guards to find him some thick bandages and a healing poultice. Returning to the fire with supplies, Alistair sat on the ground in front of Hawke and gently settled her foot in his lap. "You know, I thought that Ser Aaron would be able to keep an eye on you since he was so keen on being your personal guard but apparently he isn't quite used to your special knack for getting into trouble." Hawke continued to just shake her head in her hands so Alistair squeezed her knee "Hey – it's okay. I'd have broken my neck walking around in the dark like that." When she didn't react, he squeezed her knee again "Hey – look at me."

She lifted her head and gave him a thoroughly miserable look. "I feel like an idiot and now I won't even be able to walk. I just… I hate feeling useless and this," she gestured to her foot, "certainly makes me feel useless. I'm going to feel ridiculous showing up with you in Denerim crippled from a run in with a nefarious hole in the ground."

Alistair began applying the poultice as gently as he could and then started wrapping the ankle. "You need to tell me if you can't feel your toes." Hawke just nodded, watching him as he worked. Alistair had to admit that it was a pretty incredible sprain. She never seemed to do anything halfway. When he tied off the bandages, he gently put her foot back down on the ground. "You're going to need to keep off this but also keep it up. It'll help with the swelling. And you're sleeping in my tent tonight."

"No, I have a tent, Alistair. There aren't magical healing energies in your tent just because it's bigger."

"You don't have to crawl to get into my tent and I have actual pillows which you're going to need to keep your leg elevated." She began to protest again but he put up a hand, forestalling her "and if this is where I have to break out the royal decree then I am not afraid to use it. I have guards and everything to back me up."

She didn't look pleased about it, but she was clearly defeated. And truthfully, Alistair had been looking for an excuse anyway to get some alone time with her. While he'd prefer it not to have happened because she hobbled herself, he would take what he could get. He stood and helped her up, slinging an arm around her waist and half lifting her as they went to his tent. He settled her on the cot. "Do you need to… change? Or do you want to sleep in this?"

Hawke suddenly looked slightly alarmed. "Uh… I … yes, I want to take off my leggings."

"Right." Alistair swiftly turned and left the tent to give her some privacy. After a few minutes of standing at the tentflap quietly talking to Noodle, he heard her say his name and he returned to find her sitting where he'd left her on the cot with her remaining boot and leggings puddled on the floor beside it. The shift she wore came down to her knees but she kept pulling at the hem feebly as if she could make it grow longer through sheer will alone. It was frankly adorable.

He got her to lay back on the cot and grabbed several cushions from around the tent, propping her foot up on it and then laying a blanket over her. He was moving away when she reached out for his wrist "Where are you going to sleep? And where is Noodle?"

"Actually I was going to steal your bedroll and put it here beside you if that's alright. And there's plenty of space here for Noodle – he's out by the fire at the moment."

"You know, I could have just as easily slept on a bedroll on the floor of the tent, Alistair."

"I know, Marian, but you're on the cot now and I'm not helping you get up. You're stuck unless you want to crawl."

Hawke rolled her eyes at him as he went to her tent and grabbed up her pack and her bedroll. He also stopped by the wagon and snagged a waterskin. Settling back in his own tent, he laid out the bedroll and tossed her the waterskin before blowing out the lamp and stripping down to just his breeches for sleep. As he layed down he realized that her bedroll smelled exactly like her. Maddeningly so. It was all he could do not to turn his head into the bolster and breathe deeply. He realized as he tried to fall asleep and completely failed, hearing her softly breathing near him, that this may have actually been a very bad idea.

…

The storm started sometime before dawn, lightning streaking across the sky and lighting up the entire camp for long moments before flickering and fading. If the thunder hadn't woken him up, Hawke gasping and sitting bolt upright would have. "Just a storm" he murmured, eyes still closed, but completely awake now. He heard her lay back down and he reached his hand up and under the covers of the cot and Hawke's hand met his. They laid there and listen to the storm as it rumbled and flashed and eventually the rain began in earnest, coming down in heavy sheets and pummeling the tent. They occasionally dozed and would wake to another intense peal of thunder which invariably set Noodle to pacing the perimeter of the tent, making a round before settling back in on the pile of furs he'd claimed for himself.

"It's been a long time. I forgot what storms here were like. They seem… different." Hawke was whispering almost reverently. "In Kirkwall it rained but it always seemed to be light rain that went on forever and only eventually soaked everything through. I can remember a storm here when I was a child. I think I must have been about five years old; Bethanny and Carver were still toddlers and driving my mother mad every moment of the day. We were living somewhere in the west, probably not far from Lake Calenhad." Alistair didn't know why she was suddenly sharing this bit of her life, but he was mesmerized as she talked. She so often only shared things about her life when they were asked of her directly. "It had been a normal summer day, my father was outside, and tending to the little patch of a garden he kept, trying to grow some of our food though, honestly, he was a hopeless farmer. Suddenly, the sky darkened to the point where my mother lit lanterns in the little cabin we were in and we both had to try to calm the twins who were frightened by the sudden change. A crack of lightning that hit a tree nearby set them both to crying and wailing again just as we'd gotten them distracted. My father came over to the doorway and I joined him, Carver clinging to me the whole time. He did that a lot as a baby, though he never really believed anyone when we told him about it when he was older. My father and I stood there and watched the storm build, watched the distant sheets of rain as they moved closer. Like we were both caught in some kind of spell. When the rain finally hit the thin roof of the cabin we both jumped, scared despite the fact that we knew it was coming. My father started laughing first and I joined him. I couldn't explain why it was so funny but it got Carver laughing too, eager to join in on whatever was happening. He was the kind of baby who would laugh when you laughed and cry when you cried, as if he could understand emotions just by repeating them. And Bethanny at least quieted and watched with those big brown curious eyes of hers. For as sweet as she was as a young woman she was an uncommonly stoic baby, always watching and absorbing everything around her. We didn't know yet that she had magic. We wouldn't know that for … maybe another 4 years or so. We were panting and leaning against the doorframe for a long time before we regained our composure. We all gathered around a lamp and my father began telling us all stories. He'd only gotten through a few when the storm passed and the sun came back out almost immediately. My mother went to extinguish the lantern but father stopped her. He got up and closed all the curtains, keeping the room as dark as possible, and then kept on as if the rain had never stopped. We sat there for hours as he spun tales, all of us on the floor huddled around a lantern like it was a source of warmth on a cold night."

She was quiet then, but Alistiar could tell from the way her hand quaked in his that she was crying silently. He squeezed her hand and she squeezed back. "I miss them, Alistair." She let out a strangled sob then and Alistiar went up on his knees beside her to pull her to him, cradling her head against his chest. "I feel like all anyone has left of them is memories. And when those who remember are gone there will be nothing left of them at all. My father most of all. No one will remember him because no one knew him. Some apostate mage who ran off and had a family he hid from the world."

Alistair didn't know what to say. He'd never had a family to mourn. The only thing he could compare it to was the loss of Duncan and the rest of the wardens. And the loss of Solona. But both of them had made such a mark on the world that the reverberations of their lives would never truly be forgotten.

"So tell me about him. About them all. We'll share the memories."

She sniffed a few times, but he felt her nod against him. He sat back down, his head at the same level as hers on the cot as she turned toward him, holding his hands. She began to talk, haltingly at first. But the more she shared it seemed the more she found to share. Soon it was hours later and while she sometimes cried, sometimes laughed, Alistair was sure that it helped her somehow to release this grief. And he developed a very rich picture of what their life had been like and exactly who her father had been. The stories of apostates were typically so short or so bereft of emotion in the recounting that it was all too easy to forget that they are people with feelings and ambitions and, sometimes, whole lives spent outside of the circle and lived on their own terms. With an experience like that, it was no wonder that Hawke herself had become so fiercely independent, adaptable, and strong. And it wasn't just the apostate experience that had shaped her – it was the whole of Ferelden and its people. Her family had lived in or near a startling number of hamlets across the span of Ferelden. While his own knowledge of the country had been sharply carved out by his year of travel during the blight, crossing and recrossing Ferelden again and again on foot, Hawke's was spread out over years. Her family also hadn't simply passed through these places; they remained on the edges of most towns, but had lived near enough to understand the character of the people, their trials, their issues, their desires and struggles. And while the hardships of her life had been great, there had been deep and abiding love as well.

At some point while they talked, the rain had stopped and Hawke had sat up. Alistair was still on the floor, sitting in front of her and he had her sprained ankle resting atop one of his legs as he leaned back on his hands, looking up at her. She was laughing and telling him about one time when Carver was determined that he could crawl further out onto a branch than Hawke could and had managed to upset a hive of bees, causing him to flail and eventually fall. Hawke herself got under him as he plummeted, thinking she could catch him, and suffered the brunt of the impact, resulting in a broken arm but Carver was still covered in stings and blamed her for weeks, insinuating that she somehow knew that the bees were there and didn't tell him. Their mother had scolded them both, but also privately thanked Hawke for throwing herself under her brother.

"You've described Bethanny but never Carver – I can't really get a mental image of him."

"Oh, well, I guess I don't think about it because he looked so much like my father. He was tall eventually, though he was a little bit of a runt as a child. He didn't grow much until he hit 16 or so. And then suddenly he was as tall as you, barrel chested, and imposing. He had very dark hair and dark eyes like my father and because we spent so much time travelling and working in the sun he had slightly dark skin – something close to what I have now. He was also handsome, with a broad jaw and a sort of brooding demeanor that women always seemed to swoon over. He could be charming when he wanted – he was very popular with the camp followers at Ostagar." She smirked at him.

"I don't remember any camp followers at Ostagar." Alistair took on a teasing, petulant tone. "If there were women about they certainly kept themselves hidden. Maker knows I was eager enough to look for them."

"They were probably too busy trying to bed down my brother to notice the stunning Grey Warden they could have been plying instead."

"Stunning am I?" He grinned at her "Tell me more about how stunning I am."

Hawke snorted "You know exactly how handsome you are, Alistair – don't try to deny it."

"It still wouldn't hurt to be reminded by a beautiful woman in my tent." He had dropped his voice low and was openly flirting now, his hand resting on the andle of her uninjured leg, moving his thumb in little circles.

Hawke smiled and sighed "Well, if his majesty insists… let's see – you're tall, and broad chested with just the right amount of muscle to be impressive without being bulky." She tapped her chin as she made a show of thinking. "You've also got an amazing smile, beautiful eyes, and a face that is at once rugged and boyish." Sighing dramatically, Hawke leaned back on her hands. "What can I say, Alistair Theirin? You're the ideal man."

Alistair suddenly grabbed her behind both knees and pulled her off the cot and into his lap causing her to let out an alarmed yelp. "Ideal for everyone or just for you?" He clasped her around the waist as her hands settled on his shoulders and her legs circled around him.

Hawke leaned forward until their noses were touching. "Ideal for everyone, but most certainly for me." She then kissed just the tip of his nose. Alistiar leaned up to catch her lips with his and at first simply left a single kiss there, feather-light and chaste. But he felt the rush of MORE in his blood, and, dove in again, opening his mouth to pull in her bottom lip and then, releasing it, moving on to her top lip, and then kissed her again, parting her lips with his tongue and suddenly they were both pushed tight against each other. Her hands moved across his back, fingertips digging in and massaging the muscle there while his hands pushed up her back to the nape of her neck and then down around her sides feeling the flare and dip of her hips and her waist, before moving up to the back of her head and sliding into her hair. This was different from that tentative first kiss on the ship. Alistair's entire body seemed to throb in time with his heart. He'd never felt this kind of want before. While women had certainly aroused his desire in the past this was something entirely different. Even the bland, natural smell of her skin as he broke his mouth away from hers to taste and bite down her chin and neck seemed completely new and intoxicating. The fact that she was in only a shift that had now bunched up around her hips as she rocked against him, working her hands in circles across the bare skin of his back, and he was only in a thin pair of breeches certainly did nothing to cool the fire being stoked in him.

Hawke's head was laid back into the supporting hand Alistair had at the nape of her neck as his mouth continued to rove across her collar bones and her shoulder and the hollow at the base of her neck. Her fingers dug into his shoulders and she knew she was breathing hard, nearly panting. She'd never in her life been touched like this. This worshipful, devotional exploration of her skin had taken her completely by surprise but, Maker, was it amazing. Alistair's perfectly caloused hands through the thin material of her shift were maddening at her hips, his fingers strong as he gripped at her and pulled her tighter against him even as he breathed heavily against the crook of her neck. The stubble of his chin scratched at her and raised goose bumps only to be soothed away by the sweet softness of his mouth and little flicks of his tongue. The idea that this man was actually a virgin – had never really even kissed women before her – was suddenly absurd. She was sure he had to be lying about that. Or she was just that awkward herself that she couldn't tell. Even his smell was amazing. He smelled like… Alistair. Not a cologne or a smell in particular. Just his skin, the slightly salty, slightly musky taste of him when she latched her teeth and her tongue onto the edge of his ear, causing him to tremble against her.

Alistair ran one hand down her outer thigh to her knee and slowly back up, moving around her hip to clutch and squeeze at her backside and he felt her legs go tighter around him. He worked his other hand up the back of the shift Hawke was wearing and felt the expanse of her warm, bare back as she moved back to his lips and let out an appreciative noise in her throat when she recaptured his tongue with hers.

"Your Majesty! I am sorry to disturb you." The call from the flap of the tent pulled them roughly apart.

As they both turned their heads to look at the tent opening, they realized that might be a good thing. Without the interruption they would have been abruptly heading to a place where they would NEED to keep going. Alistair desperately wanted to yell at the guard, to curse at the timing, or to just ignore it altogether, but he also wasn't keen on the idea of taking Hawke in a tent in a muddy field, no matter how much he wanted her right then. And, Maker, he wanted her.

Alistair sighed heavily and put his forehead against Hawkes, realizing that she was still breathing heavily. "Yes – just a moment!" he called out and then looked at Hawke directly. She was smiling at him, her face flushed.

"I suppose I should probably get up." Her eyes danced with amusement.

"Nah, let's just let him in. Let's get the rumors started on the right foot for when we reach Denerim."

Hawke put a hand on her chest in mock astonishment "And allow the court to think that I am less than a lady, your Majesty? Why that would be just horrible!"

Alistair growled at her "You are going to drive me mad, Hawke. You know that, right?"

"I hope it's at least in a good way."

Alistair darted forward again to kiss her mouth as he rose, not letting go of her and hauling her to her feet along with him. "Only in the best way." He kissed her forehead as he let her sink back down on the cot. He turned to find a shirt but she stopped him, pulling him over by the wrist. Looking up at him smiling she gestured for him to lean over and kissed him one more time. Just barely pulling away, she grinned against his lips.

"I love you, Alistiar"

"And I love you, Marian."

She let him go then and settled back in the cot, pulling the blankets over her legs. Alistair threw on a shirt and then called out for the guard to enter.

A breathless Ser Aaron charged in "I am sorry for disturbing you, your majesty, but Lady Marian is not in her tent and I've – " he stopped abruptly as his eyes fell on Hawke, who cheekily waggled her fingers at him from the cot.

"She injured her leg last night walking through the woods. Fenris, Zevran, and I agreed that she would be better off in a cot here in my tent than in her own tent."

Ser Aaron looked annoyed but relieved "I see. Thank you, your majesty. I will ensure that, in the future, she is not left unguarded, even in the middle of the night in a camp full of guards." There was an edge to this statement that made Hawke have to stifle a laugh and Alistair couldn't help the smile that crept across his face either.

"Yes, she has certainly proven that she is sneaky and troublesome. I am sorry that you were alarmed at her disappearance." He noticed that Hawke didn't protest that description of herself in the slightest.

Ser Aaron bowed to the king and began to leave when Alistair called out to him. "Please let the rest of the camp know that we'll wait until tomorrow to move on. I want to give Hawke's ankle a chance to heal more before we continue toward Denerim."

Ser Aaron bowed again and left the tent.

Realizing that, the interruption over, there would be nothing to stop them from going right back to what they'd been doing, Alistiar cast around the tent for a distraction. Thankfully, Hawke must have been thinking similarly. "Food, Alistair. I'm starving. And it's been more than twenty minutes since you last ate so you must be ravenous."

"Right – food I can manage." He pulled on a pair of trousers and his boots while Hawke looked on, a slight smile on her face, looking very pleased with herself as she allowed her eyes to rove over him.

Placing her pack close to the cot, Alistair leaned over her and gave her a quick kiss, careful not to linger. "Put some clothes on you wanton woman."

He got a few looks from those in camp as he emerged from the tent, but the most prominent among them were from Zevran who was sitting on a log draped with a flap of leather to keep out the damp. Noodle, who had left the tent hours before just at dawn, clearly driven out by his stomach, sat nearby casting baleful looks at the elf who was completely ignoring him and his obvious desire for food. As Alistair drew near to go through their supplies, Zevran let out a long sigh.

"You know, you are quite lucky that there are no elves in the King's Guard, your Majesty. Their improved hearing would be the cause of many new and more interesting rumors surrounding you and Hawke."

Alistair smirked at him "Let them have their rumors. They're all true anyway. I'm not going to hide her, Zevran."

"And what would your Arl Eamon have to say about that? I don't remember him as being the most understanding man, especially when it came to the question of who you get… involved with."

"Eamon has already attempted to insinuate himself in this once – once that I know of, anyway, he's probably attempted it more – he won't succeed. His true colors have shown more and more as time has gone on." Startled that what he was saying was the truth, Alistair continued. "I have realized that he was not the man I thought he was and that my trust in him has been misplaced."

Zevran nodded thoughtfully at that. "He did put you on the throne, though. In that I don't think his judgement was misplaced."

"True – and I can't say now that I'm sorry about it. But I also have no illusions that his motivation in that was simply the good of Ferelden."

Zevran smirked at him "So I see the boy king has lost some of his naivete."

"You have no idea, Zevran." With that Alistair headed back to the tent to find Hawke dressed again and hopping around on one foot.

"You look ridiculous and I told you to keep your foot up."

"I was bored. You have books over here."

"Well sit there and you can go through the books all you like while you eat." Alistair arrayed his plundered rations on the small table between them. They both ate while Hawke flipped through the few books Alistair had with him. They were all related to shifts in power in Ferelden and the history of various Teyrnins and Arlings. Very dry, but necessary, he'd found, if he were ever going to understand some of the deep seated issues concerning those areas he did not yet have a strong alliance with. Hawke began quizzing him on facts from the book like a tutor. It was amusing but useful and they both quickly finished their breakfast and he checked on her bandages. The poultice had done a lot to begin repairing the ankle and the swelling had gone down quite a bit but it was still very tender and a horrible dark red and purple color.

"I think you may have to see a healer once we're in Denerim to make sure you haven't ripped any tendons. Wynne was due back in court so I'll ask her to have a look. Until then, stay off of it."

"I think the shooting pain everytime I put weight on it is enough to keep me from walking around on it, Alistair."

Eventually they found the tent occupied by Noodle, Zevran, and Fenris as well and Hawke talked them all into playing a game of cards which Alistair gamely sat out of. Despite the fact that they weren't playing for coin all three of them were completely ruthless and it was actually fun to watch them all banter and harass each other while they played. At some point in the night Zevran began telling Hawke and Fenris antecdotes about the blight and, more specifically, about Alistair. When he told them about the near constant bickering between Alistair and Morrigan, Hawke crooked an eyebrow at Alistair and asked if there wasn't perhaps more than one blight companion he'd had a crush on.

Zevran laughed uproariously. "Solona said the same thing. Though, no, I don't think either of them were harboring secret lusts for each other." He paused then and looked back at Hawke "So he told you about Lelianna, yes?"

Hawke nodded "Yes, he did. It's hardly surprising, she is very pretty after all. I've also been told that men find that Orlesian accent intriguing in a woman."

Fenris scoffed "so much simpering."

"Ah, Lelianna was different. She told grand stories and sang beautifully. She was also quite deadly with a bow. I was surprised when she turned down Alistair's affections. She was clearly enamoured of him."

Alistair felt himself go red at that "No she wasn't. She turned me down flat."

"She was protecting herself, Alistair. She was sure that her past in Orlais would be traumatic for you and that you would turn her away once you knew exactly what she was and how she lived."

Alistair saw a flicker of something pass over Hawke's face and Zevran seemed to see it too because he swiftly changed the subject. "I always thought Ser Cautherin had a special fondness for you, you know."

Alistair spluttered "She locked Solona and me in a dungeon and had us tortured."

"On orders from her commander. If she had had her way I think she may have done something very different with you in that dungeon. Of course, it most likely would have still involved tying you up in some capacity."

Alistair emphatically shook his head "No, I think she was in love with Loghain. You saw the way she pleaded for him when we got to the Landsmeet. Any woman twisted enough to love that man clearly has something wrong with her."

"Crazy women make fantastic lovers."

Alistair just shook his head as Fenris and Hawke smirked at the two of them.

Fenris put together food for them all and they ate in Alistair's tent. It was the first time that trip that he didn't feel ridiculous for having such an enormous tent all to himself and he was glad for the company. It was especially welcome since none of these people were intent on treating him as anything other than Alistair – whatever that might mean for each of them in particular. Eventually, Fenris and Zevran excused themselves and the whole camp settled in for sleep to get an early start on the road the next day. Alistair found in the middle of the night that Noodle had scooted into the space between the cot Hawke laid on and where Alistair was on the floor, so that he was completely between both of them. Alistair put a hand on the warhound's flank and in response Noodle shifted, buried his snout into the crook of Alistair's neck and promptly fell back asleep.

The next day's travel was easy on everyone except Hawke who was forced to ride propped up in the back of the wagon. The pitch and shift of the thing apparently caused some motion sickness and she spent most of the day lying on her side with her hands covering her face, moaning when the wheels hit a particularly deep rut in the road or rolled over a rock, jostling her sharply.

They made it to the gates of Denerim right around dusk and hurried through the market district as quickly as possible. They drew notice, of course, and the procession had to slow down so that Alistair could greet his people appropriately and not simply rush past them all as he wanted to do. By the time they made it to the palace, the gate guards were already aware of the king's return and those nobles who were currently staying at the palace as well as an array of advisors, stewards, and guards met them in the courtyard to begin offloading the wagon. Eamon was on the steps, glowering openly when he saw who the king had arrived with, though he'd really only seen Zevran at that point. As Alistair gave instructions to the head steward about arrangements for their guests, Eamon stepped up to him.

"I am glad to see you home and well, your majesty. We have not heard from you since you left. Seneshal Varel was kind enough to send advance word of your arrival or we would not have known you were back in the country at all."

"We were at sea the majority of the time I was away, Eamon, so the lack of correspondence was unavoidable." Alistair nodded at his steward, who promptly wheeled off to begin preparing rooms and seeing to baths for the king's guests. Alistair looked back at Eamon and clapped him on the shoulder "I had every faith that the country wouldn't burn while I was away, Eamon." But Eamon wasn't looking at him at all, he was peering around Alistair's shoulder with a look of alarm.

"_And here it comes"_ Alistair thought.

Alistair followed Eamon's gaze to where Hawke was being helped out of the wagon by Fenris and Ser Aaron. They took up positions on either side of her and she held on to both their arms as she limped toward him.

"Is that who I think it is, Alistair?"

"Well it's not the Queen of Rivain if that's who you had in mind."

Eamon looked at Alistair and scowled "It's no laughing matter, your majesty. You know that she cannot be here. The chantry will be at our doors immediately demanding that she be turned over and you cannot stand in their way on this point no matter who you are. Even the king cannot intervene in this matter."

"We can discuss this in private later."

Eamon continued to scowl even as Hawke and her entourage came up to meet them. Thankfully she kept a neutral expression on her face. "Eamon, may I present Marian Hawke, and Fenris… just Fenris." Alistair finished lamely.

"A pleasure to meet you, your grace." Hawke managed an off balance curtsey, keeping her injured foot aloft. "I've heard much about you from both Bann Teagan and his majesty."

Eamon didn't even pretend to be civil toward her. "Yes, I've heard of you as well. I'm sure most of Thedas has at this point. I would ask that, while you remain here in Ferelden, you do try not to incite any more wars if you can avoid it."

Alistair was about to respond but Hawke cut him off "I am humbled by your concern, your grace. I will endeavor to avoid blowing up anything or killing anyone, though it would be foolish to guarantee such things." Her tone was as light as if she were telling him she would absolutely adore a cup of tea.

Eamon scoffed at her and turned on his heel, trudging back off toward the palace.

"Well, why did no one tell me he was such a sweet talker? I may have to revise my opinion that Teagan is the charmer of the family."

"I'm sorry, Hawke. Truly." Alistair was more angry than annoyed. "I knew he would have words about this, I didn't expect him to have them so blatantly and immediately."

Hawke waved it away "No, it's better this way. No pretence to dance around. Though I wonder if he isn't right about something – I really shouldn't be staying here with you. I can find a room in the city."

Alistair shook his head "No, I don't want you to do that. You'll be better protected here in the palace and it will actually improve our case with the Divine if I make it clear that you are here as my guest – no matter what Eamon may think of it."

Hawke shrugged at him "It's your call, Alistair. But just know that I would not object if you decided that it wasn't a good idea for me to be here."

Alistair knew that there was far more to that statement than just its surface meeting – she meant "here" in many more ways than just "at the palace", but he let it go. This wasn't the time for that discussion. Instead, he reached out and put a hand on her cheek. "The steward will take you to your room. There should be a bath waiting for you. I'll also have Wynne come up and check on you once you're settled." He leaned forward and kissed her on the forehead and then realized that he'd just done that in the palace courtyard in Denerim and that, no matter how they felt about each other, it was a horrendous breech of protocol that any number of the wandering servants may have seen. He took a deft step backwards and swept a hand toward the main entrance.

"Great. Steps." Hawke sighed, trying to sound light, though she felt a bit stung that Alistair was apparently not as free of the shackles of expectation as she'd thought. With Fenris's steadying hand she managed to hop up the staircase to the great doors. They were escorted down a labyrinth of passageways until they were both shown into a room. The maid standing primly in the center of the room motioned to either side of the sitting room and told them that they were to share the suite. It was actually somewhat of a relief. Hawke had begun to have visions of wandering aimlessly through the palace trying to find anyone familiar at all. At least if Fenris was nearby he could suffer with her.

True to Alistair's word a bath had been drawn for her in her room and someone had even unpacked her clothing and apparently… stolen it. It wasn't in the wardrobe nor any of the drawers. Her armor had been put on the stand in the corner and her daggers put into a weapon stand and her solitary boot was sitting near the bed, but there wasn't a stitch of clothing in the room. Having visions of another annoyed servant harassment scheme, she hopped her way back out to the sitting room and collided with a maid making her way in, causing her to careen across the room and eventually have to put her foot down to catch herself from falling, which shot an intense pain through her leg and she just gave up and crumpled to the floor.

"Oh! I am so sorry, my lady! I didn't see you there! I am so sorry! Please, allow me to help you up! I … please, my lady, I will get you a different maid immediately!" the woman was nearly hysterical.

Hawke, still wincing, shook her head "No, no, it's fine. You're fine, I… I'm fine. Really. I was the one hopping through rooms like a lunatic. You had no way of knowing." She let the maid give her a hand up and braced herself against a wall. After a moment she realized the maid was carrying an array of dresses. "Are those for me? I was coming out to look for clothing."

"Yes, my lady", the maid bobbed in place "The steward noted that your clothing was in need of washing and some repair so he had me fetch some gowns for you to wear in the meantime as well as a robe for your bath."

So not stolen afterall. "Ah, okay. Well… thank you."

The maid swept into the room and began hanging up the clothing while Hawke got to hopping back in and settled on the edge of the bed. "I am also to inform you, my lady, that your mabari has been shown to the kennels. We have a small pack in residence presently and his Majesty felt that your hound would enjoy the opportunity to meet other Mabari."

"Does he have to stay down there?"

"Oh, no, my lady, your hound has free reign of the Palace, though it would be appreciated if you could ask him to avoid the kitchens."

This whole thing was suddenly bizarre to Hawke. Not only were they allowing Noodle to roam they didn't assume she could restrain him and wanted her to _ask_ him to stay away from the kitchens. After her years in Kirkwall she'd almost forgotten how comfortable people in Ferelden were with dogs.

Finished with her fussing, the maid turned and bobbed in place again "If you should need anything at all, my lady, a page is stationed in the hall at all hours and will fetch whatever you need or direct you anywhere you need to go."

"Thank you…. Uh… I didn't catch your name."

"Oh!" The maid blushed prettily. "I… am not typically asked. I am Moira, my lady."

"Thank you, Moira, for the clothes and the accomodations. This bed is sort of ridiculous isn't it?"

Moira blushed a deeper red "If it is not to your liking, my lady, we can have your rooms moved to another – "

"No, no, I was just… bed is fine I just haven't seen anything carved like this ever before." Hawke emphasized the statement by running a hand down one of the posters of the bed, which was ornately decorated with pastoral scenes. Seeing that Moira was simply staring at her nervously she realized she was supposed to do something. "Uh… I think I'm fine, I don't need anything else."

Bobbing up and down once again, Moira seemed to sigh "Yes, my lady. Thank you, my lady." She scuttled out of the room and Hawke wasn't sure what she'd done to garner that kind of reaction. Belatedly she wondered if she was supposed to slip her some coin or something. She could catch up with her later if that was the case, she supposed.

Locking the door, Hawke peeled out of her clothes and gingerly undid the bandage on her ankle, wincing at the horrendous color as it had begun to turn a sickly green around the edges of the bruise. The bath was still pleasantly warm as she sort of half flopped into it to avoid putting weight on her damaged foot. Once she was in she realized that getting out again would be… interesting. Maybe she shouldn't have locked the door – she might have to call for help. Laughing at how ridiculous everything was, she set to scrubbing herself and washing her hair.

Once she navigated getting out of the tub, she wrapped a bath sheet around herself and hopped over to the wardrobe. The dresses were all very fine, of somewhat standard, simple Ferelden cut, which Hawke was pleased to find. She chose one in a deep blue color and laid it on the bed before pulling on a pair of smallclothes that had been provided for her. Surprising the dress fit fairly well when she found a belt for it. It was slightly too wide in the waist for her and a little tight in the shoulders and upper arms, but not uncomfortably so. With nothing else to do, she put on the pair of slippers that had also been provided for her and hopped back out to the study.

She had only just gotten settled into a chair when there was a knock at the door. Her first instinct was to rise and open the door but hopping around all day had gotten exhausting so she just called out for them to enter. An elderly woman with a tight bun poked her head around the corner. When she spotted Hawke a wide, kind smile spread across her face.

"I was hoping you were ready to see me, my lady. I am Wynne, Alistair asked me to visit you and attend to your injury."

"It's very nice to meet you, Wynne. I've heard a great deal about you from both Alistair and Zevran."

Wynne scowled at the mention of Zevran's name "Oh I am sure that whatever he had to add was colorful indeed."

Hawke grinned at her "He behaved, for the most part. From what Alistair said only one mention of your bossom was Zevran being practically saintly."

Wynne chuckled and shook her head. "I see some things truly do not change. Well – I want to take a look at your ankle. Alistair said it was pretty spectacularly sprained. He's clumsy enough to have quite a lot of experience in that arena, so I believe him."

Settling onto an ottoman in front of Hawke, she motioned for the injured leg and then clucked over it, gently prodding at it here and there as she examined it. To Hawke this woman was exactly what she thought of when someone mentioned their grandmother. It was bizarre to picture her just a few years ago helping slay an archdemon.

"You have a few stretched tendons here, nothing that can't be fixed. It will be stiff for a few days and perhaps still a little tender, so you should not do any training or extensive walking. Soaking it in warm water will help with any pain, but I will leave you a few elfroot potions as well that you can take at night, they will make sleeping a little easier."

Hawke nodded and Wynne hesitated.

"I am going to heal this now, using magic. I just wanted to make sure that you were okay with that."

Hawke grinned at her "I'd be rather disappointed if Alistair sent a senior enchanter to just rewrap it."

Giving her a tight smile, Wynne nodded and began to heal the tendons. It was over very quickly and in just a few minutes Wynne had her walking slowly around the room to check how it felt. "It feels almost back to normal. It's not even that stiff. Thank you so much – I would have felt like more of a fool if I had to continue hopping from place to place. I nearly flattened a chambermaid earlier."

Wynne smiled at her kindly and placed a few potions on a side table and then gathered her bag. Then she seemed to think better of it and put it down again. "If you wouldn't mind, Marian – I have some questions I would like to ask you."

"Of course, Wynne. What would you like to know?" Hawke settled back down into the chair and Wynne moved to the one next to it.

"I have been curious about… well about Anders." Hawke felt all the muscles in her back stiffen at the mention of his name. Wherever this was leading would not be pleasant, something in Wynne's tone made that clear to her somehow – but she was a friend of Alistair's and she was sure there had to be a good reason for her asking. Besides, she just fixed her ankle – Hawke could deal with some unpleasantness to repay that kindness.

...

_FYI - for those of you looking for a Fenris/Hawke story from me (a few of you have written and asked), I've started putting one up in addition to Diluviate. It's called Animus. It's definitely darker than this story and is written in a slightly different style. Slightly more impact I think, shorter chapters overall, and definitely in a darker tone. _


	42. Chapter 42

Alistair quickly changed and washed off a bit using the basin in his room after asking Wynne to go check in on Hawke. He would have loved to have been there for their first meeting, but he needed to start putting out fires. Based on how absolutely snide Eamon had been when he'd arrived, he was sure there were quite a few to put out.

Finding Eamon in his study, he settled into the chair across from the Arl's desk and waited for him to finish giving instructions to the page he was currently harassing. Alistair had known that he would have to come back to reality at some point and deal with Eamon but he was dreading it. From the look on Eamon's face as he shut the door and took a seat at his desk, he had been preparing for this as well, but as the aggressor. He was winding himself up for his big moment, his grand redressing of the king, the speech that would bring him back in line and back to his influence.

He was in for a rude awakening.

"Your majesty – there are a great many things we need to discuss. I had thought to discuss Anora with you first but your choice of travelling companions has drastically changed my priorities."

Alistair felt vaguely amused at that and didn't bother to hide it. "When I left Denerim I don't remember who I chose to travel with being among your duties as regent, Eamon. But sure – let's hear it."

"Please, Alistair, this is not something to be flippant about." Shuffling some papers on his desk for a moment, he found what he was looking for and stared at Alistair for a long moment. "The Divine herself has recently issued a proclamation that Marian Amell is to be found and held before being turned over to the Chantry for questioning after she evaded an agent of the Divine and simply left her seat as Viscountess empty. They've doubled their bounty on her head. Simply having her here in the palace nearly guarantees that some of the servants or those who work on the palace grounds will be tempted to try to capture her. Since I know that capturing her is highly unlikely given her background, I fear that there will be bloodshed. You cannot allow a… _guest_… in the palace to engage in the sort of wholesale murder that she is apparently all too eager to mete out."

Waving a hand at Eamon, Alistair shook his head "Wait wait… back up… if someone in the employ of the crown attacks a guest of the king within the walls of the palace they'll be held responsible for that transgression. And any way that she has to defend herself against such an attack – no matter how unlikely that possibility is – will be justified. As for this idea that she's some sort of murderous monster, I have to wonder where you've gotten your information, Eamon."

"I've gotten my information from any number of people who were more than happy to discuss just what kind of person Lady Amell is."

"And of course you vetted these people for their honesty and figured out if they had grudges against her they might wish to exploit."

"Alistair, I hardly needed to. Ask anyone in Kirkwall about her and people line up, begging for you to hear them out about the woman. She has a long history as a mercenary, a smuggler, a thief, and a general malcontent and that's even before we get to the fact that she was involved in killing a Grand Cleric and many other sisters of the Chantry as well as a Templar Knight Commander and the First Enchanter of the circle that she also helped systematically destroy. That's leaving out her incredible mismanagement of Kirkwall once she seized control."

"Do you have these statements? I'd like to see them."

"Of course," He handed over a thick sheaf of parchment. There had to be at least 50 pages in total, all filled topped to bottom. "I am glad to see that you are at least willing to entertain the possibility that this woman has somehow lied or manipulated her way into being brought here."

Alistiar just smirked at him. It was difficult to hold his tongue, but if he channeled his rage into petulance it seemed to work. "I'll entertain a great many things, Eamon. These will provide interesting reading, I'm sure." Alistair simply folded the bundle and tucked it beside him on the chair. "So, what is going on with Anora?"

Eamon spluttered "Aren't you even going to address the fact that this… _woman_... needs to be handed over to the Chantry?"

"I'll read your copious notes and get back to you with a decision." Alistair folded his hands in his lap and stared placidly at Eamon.

Sighing heavily and shaking his head, Eamon muttered "Very well." Shuffling through more papers he pulled out another stack of notes. "Anora has enacted a great many changes to the way commerce is being handled in Denerim. There were several agreements made between port cities in the southern reaches of Ferelden and Vaughn while he was still ruling Denerim that Anora has now seen fit to overturn."

"Was she doing it out of spite?"

"She may as well have been. She made the changes without discussing it at all with those Banns and they are livid at the turnaround. They've been showing up at the palace for the last 3 weeks asking that something be done about her and about the changes. I've tried to speak with her about it but she's completely unreasonable, insisting that Denerim needs the additional import taxes from those shipments in order to invest in infrastructure."

"Parts of Denerim have still not been fully rebuilt, Eamon. When I made her Arlessa we both knew that it was going to take a firm hand and a lot of work to get the city back in shape. As long as she didn't breech a contract with any of these Banns I'm not sure there's anything for us to even intervene about."

"In addition to the import taxes she's also changed the way that market stalls are leased in the marketplace, which has caused a huge increase in the number of merchants flooding the city as well as the crowds in the marketplace in general."

"She's bringing more trade to the city and this is an issue for you." He deadpanned at Eamon. Truly, the fact that he ever took this man seriously was strange to him. Even just two year ago Eamon was still a brilliant man in his eyes and now… all he saw was pettiness.

Exasperated, Eamon huffed out "With the increase in people in the marketplace there has been an increase in pickpocketing and crime in general in the area. Every lout in Denerim has now come out from the back alleys and is preying openly on those in the marketplace."

Alistair furrowed his brows at that "So the gangs of thugs that have never been truly eradicated from Denerim are now parading about in the open and brazenly stealing. Is that what you're saying?"

"Yes, exactly, Alistair. All the crime in Denerim has seemed to become concentrated in one location."

Alistair laughed at that. "Anora is brilliant; I have to give her that."

"How exactly is a stark increase in crime brilliant?"

Alistair shook his head. "It hasn't increased, it's become concentrated. If she can use the money from the import taxes to bolster the ranks of the guard she stands a very good chance of putting a huge and possibly permanent dent in the gangs that have always eluded capture. They're practically begging to be run in to prison by coming out of the woodwork as they have. The additional leasing fees coming into the city will only help in that regard as well."

"Alistair, I insist you speak to her about this. The better citizens of the city are terrified of the market district now."

Alistair sighed. Nevermind that the commoners that make up the vast majority of Denerim's populace were likely experiencing the first peace they'd had since just after the blight when there was nothing but rubble and death. There might be a few nobles who can't go for a stroll without having their purses snatched and therefore it's an issue. "I'll discuss it with her. I'm sure there are other complaints?"

"Mainly just one more about Anora – the elven guard in the alienage has apparently begun turning a blind eye to things that are still technically illegal. Anora is aware of it but has done nothing to enforce an equal application of the law."

"What things are they ignoring?"

"Elves carrying weapons, first and foremost. There are also several statutes against elves gathering in number anywhere near the alienage gates and that has been ignored as well. Arl Wulff saw a young elf near his estate pull out a small knife and use it to cut up some fruit nearly on his doorstep. If even he's noticed it, surely the commoners have as well."

"Fruit knives. Clearly a menace." Flippancy wasn't working anymore to calm his ire. "Yes, before you yell at me again, yes, I will talk to Anora about this as well. Have her summoned tomorrow or whenever she's available, really. What's next?"

"While there was initially no issue with this, some of the southern Banns have become… concerned… that you're showing undue favoritism toward Highever with the horses that have been sent from Orlais being awarded to Teyrna Cousland."

"They were sent to her because her horsemen have far more experience in breeding programs than anyone else in the country. Once the breeding program stabilizes, breeding groups will be sent throughout Ferelden for the Banns and Arls to do with as they wish. Orlesian horseflesh will not stand up to Ferelden winters without the proper care and attention. It would have been a completely wasted investment and agreement with Celene had we simply sent them throughout the country. This has always been part of the agreement, Eamon – as you well know. Why are you even bringing this to me when you could have told these Banns this yourself?"

"They want to hear it from their king, Alistair, not his regent."

"Which means you want me to tell them instead of having to deal with them yourself."

Eamon began to splutter but Alistair cut him off "Nevermind, Eamon. I had no idea being a regent came with so many loopholes and odd exclusions. You can't speak for the king but you can spend months playing detective about one woman."

Alistair stood then "If there is nothing else, I have correspondence to write and I'd like to have dinner. Set up whatever meetings need to happen and inform my steward." He began to leave the room but remembered something. "Ah, yes – Commander Caron is stepping down as Arl. I would like you to compile a list of those who could take over the position of Arl of Amaranthine without being hostile toward the Wardens and with the understanding that they will continue to hold Vigil's Keep until there is a royal decree to the contrary."

"Alistair! You can't just shuffle the nobility around at your whim. You should have consulted me before making a decision like that."

Narrowing his eyes at Eamon he took a few steps closer "I was there, you were not. The people of Amaranthine need a Ferelden Arl and one who is going to take their responsibility toward Ferelden as seriously as their responsibility toward the wardens. It was my mistake appointing Caron and it was mine to correct. He will continue to serve as Arl until a suitable replacement is found. I'd honestly considered simply elevating Seneschal Varel on the spot but knew how you would feel about _that_ so I refrained." He paused and gave Eamon a nasty smile "See, I do think of you."

Absolutely fuming now, he left Eamon's office and started toward his study. Suddenly he remembered that Hawke was there – right there in the palace! – and veered off to head down to the suite of rooms she should be staying in. When he reached the door to the suite's sitting room the guard there informed him that Hawke was not in but that he did not know where she went. Alistair considered trying to find Ser Aaron for a moment but then was struck by a much better idea and headed to the kennels instead.

Noodle was lying in a mound of Mabaris, happily snuffling at the puppies that had been weened just a few weeks prior. When he saw Alistair he unceremoniously abandoned them, trailing squeeling mabari pups, and rain toward Alistair nearly knocking him over in the process.

Laughing, he scratched at Noodle's head "I thought you might like it down here. While being the only Mabari certainly makes you stand out more, it must get lonely as well."

Noodle licked at his hands by way of an answer.

"I need to find Hawke. Do you think you can help?" Noodle barked and took off out of the kennel, a few of the kennel master assistants dashing after him to wrangle the escaping puppies. Alistair had to jog to keep up and was somewhat gratified at the number of people who didn't bat an eye at all at the sight of the king chasing a Mabari through the halls. Noodle stopped off first at Hawke's room, then took off down the hall and took a completely circuitous route, doubling back several times, to get out to the palace gardens. Mabaris were not exactly known for tracking – but when it came to tracking their masters they were fairly uncanny. As the sun had just dipped below the horizon, the pathways of the royal gardens were lit with torches and eventually Alistair saw off in the distance snowy white hair that could only be Fenris, pacing back and forth in a quick pattern just off the main path, causing him to pace into and then back out of the light. As he got closer he realized that Fenris was agitated from the way the elf's fists were clenching and unclenching. Noodle stopped and danced around near Fenris for a moment and then took off across the grounds at full speed, darting back and forth here and there as if he were chasing a hare, but apparently just enjoying the free spaces to run in.

Despite the obvious warnings that there was something unpleasant going on here, Alistair continued to move toward Fenris and eventually saw that he paced in front of a small semi-circle of benches and that a figure he assumed was Hawke sat on one of them, sitting sideways along the bench with her knees pulled up to her chest and her arms wrapped around them. Fenris hadn't seemed to pay any attention to the hound but when his eyes fell on Alistair he scowled and began stalking directly at him. Alistair heard a quiet warning of "Fenris, don't…" come from Hawke but the elf ignored her. Alistair slowed and then stopped. Whatever this was, it wasn't good.

He'd seen Fenris angry before, but it hadn't yet been directed at him. And it was intimidating. It didn't matter that he was taller and broader and probably outwardly more physically intimidating than Fenris. He'd never seen it himself, but he knew from Hawke that this was a man who could reach into your chest and pull out your heart more easily than most would be able to stab you. Even without that knowledge there was a clear and intense menace to Fenris that screamed warnings.

He put his hands up in a gesture of surrender. It didn't look like Fenris was going to stop for a moment but he eventually did when he was only inches from Alistair and then he leaned in further. "Was it a mistake to trust you? To let you bring her here?"

That was not what Alistair had been expecting. Of course he wasn't exactly sure what he'd been expecting so maybe that was alright. "No, it wasn't a mistake." He answered as honestly and simply as he could.

"Then explain why you didn't think that either of us should know about the abomination? You are either incredibly foolish or incredibly thoughtless and both of those are things that Hawke does not need."

Alistair was honestly confused "The abomination? What are you talking about? What abo-" and then it dawned on him. "Maker! I… I don't think of her as that. She's just… Wynne. I… how did Hawke find out? Did something happen?" Alistair cast his eyes toward Hawke, who had unfolded now and stood but who hadn't moved to intervene or talk for herself. Alistair started to move toward her but Fenris's surprisingly strong hand yanked him back by the collar.

"What happened is that your _friend _healed Hawke's ankle and then asked her about Anders. _For two hours_, Alistair, question after question. And because Hawke knew she was your friend she sat there and answered every question. And it was only at the end of all of this that Hawke finally asked why she was so interested and your friend told her. When were _you_ going to tell her?"

Alistair wrenched Fenris's hand away from him "I told you – I don't think of Wynne as an abomination. She is NOT Anders."

"Yet."

Alistair just scowled at him and stalked off toward Hawke, who stood with her arms crossed in a way that seemed to signal comforting herself as opposed to defiance.

"Hawke… Marian… I don't know why Wynne decided to pummel you with questions. I promised her months ago that we would talk to you about Anders and try to find answers for her – for all of us – about fade spirits and joining with them. But we'd agreed that we would do it together, not ambush you like this when you'd barely been in the palace for more than a few hours."

He could tell from her face that she had cried though she was dry-eyed now and she seemed… small, folded in on herself. She just looked at him without saying anything, evaluating him in some way. He was sure he was being measured with that look – that all his faults and all his good points were being tallied in some way.

"How long have you known what she is?"

Alistair sighed and moved to another bench to sit, leaning over, elbows on his knees. "Since the blight. Not quite when it happened, but soon enough after. But you have to understand – Wynne was exactly the same before and after. The spirit – it's never influenced her the way that Justice did to Anders. I've known her for 6 years, fought by her side day after day against the blight. If I thought she were dangerous, If I felt any of the sort of seething, out of control magic in her that Anders had…" he trailed off. Truthfully, he wasn't sure what he'd have done if he'd sensed that.

"So it's never taken control of her in any way?"

Alistair started to say no but then realized he'd be lying. "It… has. But only a few times. The first time we were completely overwhelmed. Solona and I were both nearly dead, Wynne was injured, Morrigan was unconscious. But suddenly there was an extremely powerful wave of healing energy that washed through us all and we were healed, completely and utterly, as if we'd never been injured. As we started to leave the area once the fighting was over, Wynne passed out, completely exhausted. It was another week before she admitted to Solona what had happened in the circle tower – that she'd actually died and somehow been brought back by the spirit she'd been born with a connection to. And when we fought the archdemon it happened again. Most of us would not have survived had it not been for her and for the spirit that worked through her. I … I can't be sorry for that, Marian."

"Justice was useful too. It saved our lives several times over. Even Fenris will admit to that."

Alistair shut his eyes and shook his head "It's not the same thing."

"Explain how it's different." Hawke sat near him, turned toward him slightly. She obviously wanted to understand and he was just… grateful. While he didn't fool himself into thinking that she wasn't angry or hurt, wanting to understand was far far better of a reaction than he had any right to hope for. He'd screwed up and she hadn't even been here for a full day.

"It's different because Wynne always had a connection to that spirit, from the moment she was born. That's how spirit healers work. The spirit of Hope had known Wynne since she was an infant, since before she exhibited magic. Anders was also a spirit healer. Wynne remembered him from the tower. She trained him in healing. Justice was not the spirit he was born with a connection to. They were never meant to have a connection at all. And it corrupted both of them. Wynne also has a theory that it wasn't Anders corrupting Justice and twisting him into Vengeance at all. But that Justice, because he lived among us in the body of that warden and experienced feelings and desires and emotions and developed his own very solid ideas about the mortal plane before he joined with Anders… he was already twisted."

She didn't respond, verbally, but nodded. She wanted him to continue, to encourage him to explain his thinking.

Alistair sighed, "Marian, I saw Justice with my own eyes – the way it pushed through and controlled Anders. That has never happened with Wynne – not like that. Hope is interested in Wynne, and Wynne alone. Hope has no ambitions or plans. It has never influenced Wynne, never pushed her, whispered to her, none of it."

"And you know that because that's what she has told you."

"I know that because I know her and I trust her. I trust her with my life. I would trust her with _your_ life."

"What about her?"

He shook his head "What do you mean?"

"Does she trust you with hers?"

"She does. She's proven it over and over."

"And if the day came when things changed, when she was influenced by this spirit, what would you do?"

Feeling horrified, Alistair just started at her for a moment "What do you mean, 'what would I do'?"

"Would you kill her? If it came to it and she was no longer Wynne, would you kill her?"

The thought was horrible to him. It had never occurred to him that anything like that would ever happen and he wondered where Hawke was going with this. But then it was obvious. She'd been faced with that exact scenario. She'd looked someone she had once trusted with her life in the eye and seen a stranger there. A stranger who had done terrible things, inhuman things. He had truly been an abomination then and she'd made the decision to let him live. It was a decision that she'd battled with ever since that day. Anders was not the one who had set that bomb. But he would have been had she not intervened. And his work had lead to so much destruction and death. Every day she found herself wondering what the right decision had been and if she hadn't taken the cowards' path. She'd told him as much while they were still on the ship.

"If Wynne ever became anything remotely like what Anders became, I would." And he meant it.

Hawke continued to just look at him for a moment and then slowly nodded at him. "You should tell Wynne that. She would be relieved."

Stunned again, Alistair just stared at her. She continued the thought "I am not a mage but I know how they feel. My sister made me swear that if she were ever possessed by a demon or turned into an abomination that I would cut her down. My father made me promise the same. All mages fear it. That's why the Ferelden circle still stands, why there has been an influx of mages from the other circles that have fallen. They know they need someone to help them if the worst should happen. It would be a kindness to let her know that she wouldn't be a danger to anyone – that you would stop it before it happened."

Alistair understood and nodded. He wasn't sure that he could actually tell Wynne that, but he understood.

Long minutes passed while Alistair just waited, not wanting to push her.

She eventually let out a ragged breath, finally belying the sort of turmoil she was feeling. "I think this all just… took me off guard. I've tried to avoid thinking about Anders. I… don't think I realized just how much it all hurt. I knew I was angry – very angry. But there's more than that. He knew I was going to kill him. He was counting on it, actually. He said it was so he could be a martyr, but I don't think that was it at all. I think he – Anders, not the part of him influenced by Justice – just wanted to be released."

"Then it would have been a mercy killing."

Hawke shook her head "It would have been, you're right. I was angry but I wasn't hateful just… sad. So sad about the ways he'd manipulated me. But then I didn't. I didn't do it, I set him free. And freedom was no reward. He's still out there, I'm convinced, some small piece of him that's still human just begging for release. And I didn't give that to him – the one thing that was mine to truly give him and I withheld it. I leaned over and whispered into his ear that living on in the prison he'd built for himself was what he deserved. I … I passed judgement on him and then executed it. Me! As if I had the right to! And, maker, Alistair… it was cruel." Her face crumpled and she hid it in her hands. Alistair moved forward and, ignoring his instinct that she didn't want to be comforted just then, pulled her against him. "That's who I am. When it comes down to it, Alistair, that's what I am. Someone eager to be cruel and merciless. It was so easy to do, so easy to condemn him. I'm no better than he was, and probably worse. He at least did some kind of good in his life." She was sobbing now, the words barely coming out between great heaves of breath. Alistair just continued to hold her. He'd have time to tell her how wrong she was.

"You need to understand that about me. You need to know, not wonder, not assume. I am… not a good person. I have been foolish in thinking that I could just pretend that I'm not a mercenary, that I haven't killed out of anger, or that I'm not cruel when it would be more difficult to be kind." She looked at him then, her sobbing abating, but the tears still flowing freely down her face. "You can't have any misapprehensions about me. If you truly… if you love me, you need to know everything. And that means accepting the truth about who and what I am. Otherwise, it's going to be a slow process of poison being poured into you and you'll just end up hating me."

Alistair shook his head at her, he'd heard enough and he cut her off before she could continue. "If what you did was easy in any way, you wouldn't be thinking about it now. Cruel people don't cry about those they've been cruel to, Marian. You're wrong. You are not merciless, you are not a bad person. I don't know how to convince you of that, but it's the truth." He continued to stroke her hair, feeling his own eyes prick with tears. He hadn't realized that this was what she'd been carrying around, that this was what had been haunting her all this time when he'd see her get lost in thought. He made a decision then to balance this somehow – to pull himself down off of whatever pedestal she had him sitting on in her mind.

"During the blight, Loghain hired assassins to kill us, he put out bounties on us, he spread lies that we were responsible for Cailan's death on the field at Ostagar. When we finally got to the Landsmeet, Solona presented the evidence against him we'd gathered and there was a vote. He was deposed as Regent. But he refused to accept the vote. So he demanded trial by duel. Solona chose me as her champion and I dueled him. He was an incredibly tough opponent. But I was younger and angrier and so sure of myself and full of self-righteousness. And he was defeated. Anora begged for mercy for him. Riordan asked Solona to conscript him – to make him a Grey Warden. And I railed at her, railed at him. I screamed to the rafters about justice and honor and how I wouldn't be part of the Wardens if he was. And I was so sure I was right. I knew Solona wanted to conscript him –four Wardens had to be better than three, surely. It was the right decision, the sane decision. But my anger would have none of it. And Solona – she stood by me even though she knew I was wrong."

Alistair let out his own shaky breath then, about to discuss something he'd never told anyone. "And I beheaded him in the Landsmeet chamber in front of all the nobles and his daughter. And I was glad. I was practically giddy. I gloated about it for months afterward, pleased with myself to no end that I'd killed him and everyone had seen me do it. I had Anora put in Fort Drakon and we went off to kill the Archdemon. And I let her rot there after I was crowned. Let her waste away for years. And I felt good about that too. And all the time that I spent trying to figure out how to be a good king and how to rule a country and how to just get through a day without feeling like it was all too much for me – I never once had a moment of doubt that I'd done exactly what I should have done, exactly as I should have done it. It wasn't until I let Anora out, until I gave her a position and saw just how strong and worthwhile she was and how her talents had been wasted all this time that I even second guessed myself. Maybe Solona would have lived had Loghain been recruited. Maybe she still would have died. Maybe Loghain would have lived and been appointed Warden Commander. Maybe Anora would still have one member of her family left instead of being orphaned. We won't know, can't know."

"You, Marian, are not cruel. Cruelty is killing a man in front of his daughter and not even stopping to think that maybe it wasn't the right thing to do for nearly five years."

And Hawke, Maker bless her, scooted closer to him and put her arms around him. She comforted him in the face of this confession. It was almost too much to take.

"The truth is, that I would probably do it again if I had it to do over. The difference is that I would have the courage to feel bad about it."

Alistair had never admitted out loud his own regrets when it came to Anora and Loghain. The heart of it all was that he could never condemn Hawke as a monster when he was sure that he'd been a far greater one and never felt a moment of regret about it until well after the point when regret would have made a difference.

They stayed there in the gardens for a long time, their arms around each other, Fenris long since having stalked off somewhere. The gutter and whip of the torches nearby and the far off sounds of the guards patrolling were the only sounds. Eventually, she stirred against him and pulled back to look at him. They stared at each other impassively for long moments, firelight playing across their features, before she moved forward and kissed him. And as much as it felt like forgiveness it also felt wrong. He didn't deserve it. She'd been punishing herself for some misapprehension of how he would feel about the reality of her life and had probably been doing so for all the time he'd known her. It couldn't be that simple, could it? One confession and the scales were balanced?

His confusion must have shown on his face and a small smile turned the corners of her mouth up as she took his face in both hands. "Are there any other surprises I should probably know about? Did you ever work as a tavern wench or go to brothels under an assumed name?"

"Under an assumed name? No." He smiled back at her as her smile widened. And maybe it _was_ that simple. He kissed her again and let his hands fall to her waist to pull her up against him as hers slid around his neck and threaded into his hair. Eventually they pulled away from each other, his arm settling around her back and cupping her hip as she leaned against him. He occasionally placed kissed along her hairline and her temple, allowing himself to just… enjoy this. He had no way of knowing how long the peace of this moment could possibly extend and he was determined to enjoy it for as long as possible.

Neither of them spoke as they rose, tucking her hand into the crook of his arm and, followed by Noodle who had eventually come back from his run, panting heavily to flop in front of them, he walked her back to her room.

He stood outside her door for a long time, heedless of the odd looks being shot at him by the guard. He eventually turned toward his rooms, realizing that he needed sleep if he was going to have the conversation with Anora tomorrow that he now knew that he really needed to have.


	43. Chapter 43

In his study, Alistair paced. He'd been pacing for so long he'd completely lost track of time, as if steps back and forth across the stone floor were hypnotic. He wasn't even thinking, really, just pacing. His stomach was in knots. It had been a strange day the day before with some sort of unspoken resolution and peace brokered between himself and Hawke, followed by a night filled with dreams. Dreams of the Landsmeet and of Loghain and of Anora's stricken face as she watched her father die. He knew this wasn't helping, that it was just making him anxious and nervous when he really didn't need to be but he couldn't help it.

A sudden ear shattering bark finally snapped him out of it. Noodle sat in the doorway to the hall, panting at him in that way that always looked like smiling. Alistair sank into a chair and motioned for Noodle to come over. The warhounded padded across the room to him and immediately leaned up to lick Alistair's entire face, chin to forehead, which made him laugh.

"Thanks, I think I needed that."

Panting was the only response he got but he assumed that there was a "you're welcome" in it. They held a conversation of shared looks for long minutes that was only interrupted by a steward clearing his throat to tell him that Anora was waiting for him in a nearby study. Alistair whispered in Noodle's ear "go take care of Hawke" and then followed Noodle out of the room and headed toward the study.

Anora rose as he entered and then fell into a low curtsey. True to protocol, she remained silent until he spoke. It always disconcerted him when people did that.

"Hello, Arlessa Anora, please have a seat."

Anora inclined her head "Your Majesty".

Knowing that she wouldn't actually sit down until he did, he quickly took a seat across from her. The steward brought in tea and served them both before leaving them alone. They'd barely gotten through the simple, expected pleasantries before the door was unceremoniously flung open and Eamon strode in.

"Ah, I see Anora has already arrived. Good. We can clear up these issues we've been having." Eamon settled himself into a nearby chair without being invited to do so. Both Anora and Alistair simply stared at him. While Anora maintained a placid expression, there was a slight tightness around her eyes that Alistair had come to recognize as extreme annoyance. It was as close as she ever got to actually expressing it in his experience. Alistair cleared his throat trying to come up with a way to say what he wanted to say without it coming out how it sounded in his head.

"Eamon. I don't believe I was expecting you for this meeting." He hoped it came out in the even tone he was attempting.

"Yes, I know. But given your recent absence from the capital I thought it best that someone who is fully aware of what's been going on be present."

Alistair barely refrained from rolling his eyes. "That's a fair point, Eamon. But given the apparent animosity between you and Anora I think it's best that I have this meeting alone. After all, I haven't been in the capital lately so I am in a neutral position here. Which is lucky since I am the king afterall." He smiled at Eamon then.

"I would prefer to stay, your majesty." Eamon ground it out between his teeth, not even trying to hide his annoyance at being dismissed.

"That's duly noted, Eamon. I am sure there are more important things for you to attend to."

Eamon finally rose then and stiffly made his way from the room.

When he'd left and closed the door behind him, Anora, in a rare show of anything she was thinking at all, quirked a wry eyebrow at Alistair as she took a sip of her tea.

Alistair nearly laughed at that.

"So – we have a lot to talk about, the two of us. I've already heard Eamon's side of things and, frankly, I don't even need to hear yours. I already know how I feel about every issue brought before me. I'm well aware of his attitude towards you and it seems it's only gotten worse as time has gone on."

"Eamon has indeed been difficult, your majesty."

"Please, Anora – it's just the two of us. I would prefer it if you would call me by my name. I don't have such a large ego that I need to constantly be reminded of my position."

"Very well."

"While I promised Eamon I would speak to you about all the issues he brought before me, that's not actually why I've requested you."

Anora simply looked on, waiting for him to elaborate. If she was surprised she didn't show it.

"First and foremost – I'm impressed with the way you've handled Denerim. I had a report from Shiani waiting for me on my return and she says that the Alienage has improved greatly since you've become Arlessa. That alone – without having the entire Landsmeet screaming for something to be done about it – is remarkable."

"The elven guard has had much to do with the turnaround there. While it would be easy to think bigger and simply integrate them completely, the fact that we're moving toward making their lives better and the Alienage less of a dismal place will have to be enough in the short term. Change comes slowly to things like this."

Alistair nodded thoughtfully. "I have no idea how to talk about what I want to talk about, Anora. So I will explain and hopefully make my way there. I asked you here at first because I want to make an arrangement with you – I'll get to that in a moment. But yesterday I had a conversation with someone that made me realize that there is much between the two of us that should have been addressed a very long time ago and was not."

Alistair watched her face carefully for any change but did not see any. She wasn't going to make this easy on him and that somehow made him more comfortable. If she'd softened or tried to intervene and stave off what he had to say it would make it impossible to get through.

"I want to apologize for what happened with your father." Her eyes did go wide at that. Clearly it was unexpected. "I will not lie and say that I wish it had been different. I still think that I did the right thing. But I wish that I had not done it in that way. To have the entire Landsmeet chamber witness it – to have _you_ witness it like that… it was wrong. I am sorry for having deprived you of the only family you had left, and then to have heaped insult on injury by locking you up and forgetting about you for years. It was not only petty, but a complete waste of your many talents during a time when the country desperately needed them. But I was too untested as king, too frightened of everything that might happen, and all too willing to listen to my advisors, even when what they recommended felt completely wrong to me. I do not expect your forgiveness for either of those things. I don't think I deserve it. But you should know my thoughts on it anyway." He knew he was grim faced as this all came out. But his voice was steady and calm and he knew that he meant every word. He hoped it would be enough.

He paused and sipped his tea. Anora still looked vaguely shocked and she watched him intently, eyes roving over his face as if trying to determine what game or ploy this might be. Eventually, after long minutes of silence, she sighed.

"I was angry at first, Alistair. Angry and heartbroken." Anora had her brows furrowed as she caught his eye, looking directly at him. "But I also knew that I would have done exactly the same thing in your shoes. It was wise of you to keep me in Fort Drakon. It was a mercy, really, considering that you could have had me killed as well. I also was so full of rage – it would have been foolish to let me out, give me power. I'd have built an army against you and worked to have you deposed. I wouldn't have let you live if the tables had been turned. If I'd retained the crown, I'd have had you killed on the spot as a traitor, no matter how untrue it might have be."

Alistair nodded. "I understand. And I will understand if you choose not to agree to the next thing I want to say." Of course he'd also be desperate to change her mind. But he needn't say that bit. "First, I have to ask that what we discuss here goes no further than this room. At least for a while it is vital that only the two of us know about this and that even your lady in waiting not be told."

Anora looked at him questioningly and he grinned "Everyone knows she's a bard, Anora. I'm not saying she's not trustworthy – I haven't told anyone this myself. I just want to be clear that this is only the two of us."

Anora nodded "As you wish."

"Right – well – I've decided that Eamon will be stepping down as Chancellor. He will no longer by my Regeant and will be free to return to Redcliffe, though I will strongly suggest that he retire to Orlais with Isolde."

Anora's mind was already racing, thinking through all of the implications of that, he could see it as clear as if he were reading a book. Alistair barely suppressed a grin – this was exactly what he'd been hoping for – that look of calculation.

"I would like to ask you to take his place as Chancellor."

Flat shock colored Anora's face and her cheeks went pale. "You… me?"

"Yes, you."

Anora rose and walked toward the bookcase and then spun back and just stared at Alistair. "Why me?"

"Many reasons, Anora. But the first would be that when I was crowned I spent those first several months reading every scrap of paper you or Cailan touched to understand what sorts of things were worked into contracts and how to negotiate for things. I also, frankly, was hiding from people most of the time and was incredibly bored." He grinned at her, though she remained stoic. "What I learned very quickly was that Cailan made foolish, impetuous deals with terms that even I could look at and know were unfavorable. He counted on his charm to hold everything together and it may have worked while he lived, but there was no inherent permanence. All of those contracts and deals fell apart the moment he was gone. You, however, wrote contracts and bartered deals that could withstand even Dwarven contract conventions. They all may have been signed by Cailan but it was immediately apparent which of you did the work and which of you was the figurehead.

"You have continued that with Denerim. You're fearless. You're uncommonly intelligent. You're adept at the inner workings of the court. You're shrewd. And most importantly – you're honest. Or at least you have been with me."

Anora shook her head like she was trying to dislodge something. "But… I always assumed you gave me Denerim as some sort of… slight, a way to keep an eye on me."

"What?!" Alistair shook his head "no, of course not. I gave you Denerim because it needed a strong leader and you were sitting right there doing needlepoint in Fort Drakon for no good reason except my fear of you. After we spoke I realized that it was ridiculous keeping you confined. I also knew that, while I could have given you Gwaren and made you a Teryna, which would have better befitted your previous status, that it would be foolish to keep you so far away from the seat of power. Denerim needed someone who wasn't yet another in a long line of out of touch Arls who liked to play with Elves."

Anora paced back and forth a few times, her mind clearly working through all the implications. He was trying to keep a neutral expression, sip his tea, act nonchalant. But he was silently repeating to himself "say yes, say yes, say yes". Finally she stopped, folded her hands in front of her and looked at him for a long moment.

"Would I retain Denerim?"

"Of course. That's one of the reasons you're ideal. You can remain Arlessa of Denerim and take on the role of Chancellor without even having to move house. Though if you chose to live in the Palace you would have your pick of accommodations. Not my room – I'm fond of it – but anywhere else you like."

Anora mulled that over, pursing her lips and appearing to chew on the inside of her cheek. It was like every emotion that Alistair had never seen her have before was on parade across her face suddenly. He didn't exactly know her well but he had been fairly certain of a few things. Like Anora never being the type of person to suck on her teeth when thinking, but there she was doing it.

"I would need to be able to remove Eamon's spies and staff and install my own if needed."

Alistair smiled, that was as good as a "yes". "Of course, anything you need. I don't want them here in the palace anyway. Anyone on his personal staff, including the pages he used most often, will be given other duties away from the palace. I have a pretty comprehensive list of his household spies as well that we'll deal with."

Anora raised her eyebrows at that, seeming surprised, but she said nothing.

"May I ask, Alistair… what brought this on? Why now?"

Standing, Alistair crossed his arms and paced a bit himself. "That's a fair question. Honestly, I'd have done it over a year ago, but Elissa Cousland talked me out of it. She thought it best to continue to keep him close, choose a time that was right to get him to leave. For the last several years Eamon has become increasingly… strident… in his opinions. And over the last several years I've found myself more and more unwilling to listen to them. I know he fears that he is losing control of me. And the truth is, that he isn't just losing control, he's lost it completely." Settling against the edge of a table, Alistair continued. "You see, he knew I looked to him as a father figure –distant though he may have been – and I think he assumed that I would continue to do so for the rest of my life, letting him make decisions for me, guide my hand. He's always been… ambitious. I guess I just didn't realize how ambitious until last year."

"What happened last year?" Anora sat back down and refreshed her cup, looking like she was settling in for a story.

Alistair smiled "He told Empress Celene I was going to marry her."

Anora choked on her tea. "When I came back to Denerim not betrothed and with some interesting new trade agreements he didn't even want to admit to what he'd done. Then he complicated things further by nearly driving off someone very dear to me."

"Marian Hawke."

It was Alistair's turn to nearly choke. Anora grinned at him – a shocking expression on her, but one that made her look younger – "You said yourself that everyone knows that Erlina is a bard, Alistair. Of course I found out who the madly hopping woman and the lyrium painted elf in sinister black armor were. You were hardly low profile about bringing them here."

Chuckling, Alistair replied "Yes, I suppose I wasn't." Peering up at Anora for a moment, he smirked at her "So I am going to assume that you've agreed?"

"We'll need to find a way to transition Eamon out, you realize."

"You just blatantly dodged my question, Anora."

"Ah, they all did say that you were the smart one" And again she smiled at him and it was strange because it seemed genuine. Then she shook her head. "I think we need to do some planning and some thinking and then I can tell you whether I agree or not. But… I'm willing to help remove him. If I decide not to take the position after that, I will also recommend someone in my stead."

"Anora, I don't really want anyone else. If I wanted just some other person I could have asked Teagan."

"Actually, that brings me to my next question. Why _not_ ask Teagan? You certainly get along well with him."

"That's the problem, isn't it?" Shaking his head, he continued "I need someone to tell me when I'm wrong. I need advisors who will tell me I'm being foolish or looking at something incorrectly or just an ass. Teagan cares too much to do that. He has continued to see me as a ten year old boy and while I have a lot of affection for him, and his tactical thinking is rarely incorrect, I just fear I'd be better off appointing a mirror as Chancellor. I need someone who will be just as stubborn as Eamon ever was, but with the right interests at heart."

"And what interests are those, Alistair?" Anora narrowed her eyes at him.

Alistair answered immediately. "Ferelden's. I know I didn't want to be king at first. But I feel like I have done a good job. And the people of this country matter to me a great deal. It is important, above all else, that I be a good king. I don't want glory, I never have. But I want to leave the country better than it was when I found it. Or when it found me, I should say. No matter our history I know you have always cared about Ferelden."

Anora gave him a small smile and held out her teacup. "Then let's make some plans." Alistair smiled back and refilled her cup.

They talked for several hours. Alistair had lunch served in his study and they continued their conversation there. Together they talked through all the circumstances and the steps they would need to take to quickly transition out Eamon and all his people. Eventually they settled on a plan of action and they both sat back, pleased, but also very aware of just how much work was ahead of them.

Anora turned her head to him, clearly weighing something.

"Come out with it. You're going to have to get used to just saying whatever is on your mind around me."

She twisted her mouth to the side for a second. "Marian Hawke."

Alistair smirked "I wondered when that would come up."

"And?"

"And I am an open book. I have nothing to hide when it comes to her."

Anora looked at him thoughtfully "How do you intend to deal with the Chantry?" Alistair broke out into a wide grin. That question was exactly what he'd hoped to hear. He already knew he'd made the right choice, but that just confirmed it. He could have jumped up and hugged her. No judgment, no lecturing. Just a quick assessment of the situation and the next logical step in solving the problem. She was like an assassin who killed problems instead of people.

"I'm still working on that. You remember Leilianna? She is the right hand of the Divine. She was in Kirkwall investigating the issues with the mages there before everything fell apart. She even asked Hawke to try to get the Grand Cleric to leave, to head to Orlais."

"And you think that she might still be loyal enough to you to help all that go away?"

"No, but I think she might still be willing to give Hawke an honest listen. She was the only true believer I've ever met. Maybe she still is."

Nodding, Anora smiled "Sounds reasonable."

"I'd like you to meet her."

"I'm sure I will eventually, if you're serious about this."

"I'm completely serious about this. With the situation with the Chantry, it will take some time. And well, I'd have to actually… ask."

Anora sighed, but it was with humor "The bastard king and the qunari-killer queen. The Banns will love that."

"The Banns haven't met her." Alistair smirked at her. "I think it will take one night of card games and drinking for them to come around. And if they don't, well" Alistair shrugged "they're going to be angry about something anyway, let it be that."

"You've been a good king, Alistair. Better than I thought you would be."

The admission was surprising and oddly moving. "You were a good queen. I have a lot to live up to."

They both just watched each other for a moment. They'd both changed so much in 5 years. And Alistair liked to think that the changes had been improvements for both of them. He reached across and gave her hand a quick squeeze, and she replied with aa wry grin.

"You know, Solona tried to convince me to marry you."

Alistair's eyes went wide "She tried to convince you? She told me that she'd considered it and then discarded the idea."

"She was pretty sure you wouldn't agree. So was I. It would have been a huge mistake."

"Probably." He was sure they were both picturing it now and it was… fairly bizarre. Especially considering it would have been the Alistair and Anora of five years ago.

They made plans to meet again in a few days after Anora had an opportunity to lay some of the groundwork. He would meet her at her estate to avoid having Eamon hanging around. After he saw her out he headed to Hawke's rooms to see how she was doing. Ser Aaron stood guard at her door.

"Is she in?"

"Yes, she is, your majesty, but I'm afraid that Master Fenris has asked that she not be disturbed."

Alistair assumed that what that really meant was "Fenris has asked that Alistair not disturb her." While that definitely rankled him, he knew that she might need some time to herself after the day she had yesterday.

"I understand, Ser Aaron. Should you see her, can you let her know that I came by to see how she was doing?"

"Of course, your majesty."

Alistair realized at some point that he was going to have to talk to Wynne if he could hunt her down. He knew that she had a tendency to disappear here and there and it was typically due to circle business. He wasn't especially keen on finding her this time, though. While he understood why she chose to ask the questions she did, he was angry that she did it without him. The fact that she would not even stop to consider how Hawke might feel or ask Alistair's opinion of appropriate timing for such an interview was uncommonly callous of her. Solona had always sworn to him that Wynne was far more selfish and self-serving than he was willing to see but he had assumed that her opinions were borne of some interaction they'd had at the circle, and not based on any of Wynne's behavior during the blight. But maybe he'd been wrong and had simply been blinded for the affection he held for Wynne. Maybe she'd always been more selfish than he realized.

...

Days passed while Alistair got on with the business of the kingdom. He met with Donal again finally since he hadn't seen his guard captain since his return. Donal apprised him of any situations within the capital and Alistair briefed him on what had happened in Rivain and the special security concerns that they would have at the palace now that Hawke was going to be staying there.

"Finally convinced her, huh?" Donal grinned at him.

"Something like that."

"You're looking surprisingly somber for having gotten the girl across an ocean and into your very own home."

"It's good, don't get me wrong. I'm happy – very happy. Just worried. I've seen her around and whenever she doesn't think anyone is looking she just seems so… distant." Shaking his head as if to stave off the thought, he huffed out a sigh. "I have to apologize as well. I think that Hawke has caused one of your guards to reassign himself without asking your leave."

Donal nodded "Indeed – I talked to Ser Aaron just this morning. He's been mustering as usual but since he is a junior guard he wasn't in any of the primary duty rotations. I was going to schedule him in since he's proven himself up to the task when he informed me that he was guarding "The Lady Marian" and that unless he was being removed from that position, he would continue to do so. I know he wasn't your choice, your majesty, so if you'd like someone else assigned as her primary guard I'll be happy to remove him."

"No, that's not necessary at all. He has a hard time keeping track of her but I don't think that's really his fault. Anyone would. You'll assign him a group, correct?"

"Yes, there will be 5 other men in rotation to guard her rooms when she's there and her personally when she's not. Guarding duties will also cover Fenris since they're sharing a suite and Ser Aaron insisted."

"I'd love to see that the first time Fenris realizes he's been protected by guards."

"He'll deal with it, your majesty."

….

That evening, after a lengthy explanation of all of the things that happened in Rivain, Donal told Alistair he'd been doubling up the guard in key locations as soon as he knew Hawke was in the palace and that they would be doing wider and more thorough patrols of the less obvious areas – those disused and forgotten corners that presented key infiltration points. It was that diligence that caused both Donal and Zevran to find themselves in Alistair's study late that night. Realizing early in his reign that he hated eating alone and that he often had no company worth eating with, Alistair nearly always took his meals in his study to avoid sitting at some overly large table that just drove home how alone he was. Therefore, he had the unpleasant experience of having the gruesome death scene found in the bowels of the palace explained to him in excruciating detail while staring down at a rather rare cut of lamb.

Appetite flown, the three of them made their way down to a portion of the palace that Alistair had never been in and hadn't even known existed. The tunnel they entered into from a small, heavily warped and rusted door was damp and humid. The smell of rotting flesh was thick even from the doorway and only became more oppressive once they made their way up the tunnel with just Donal, Zevran, and the two guards who had apparently found the bodies in attendance with Alistair. From the weak lantern light, Alistair could make out great hanks of mold and moss growing on the walls of the tunnel. Zevran explained that this was part of the guttering system that allowed water run through narrow ducts build into the outer walls and down through this spillway and off into a grate which the entire tunnel slanted down toward. Despite the cant to the floor, puddles of fetid and stinking water stood at intervals along the course of the tunnel and added to the already oppressive smell and bizarre humidity trapped there.

The bodies were arranged along one wall, propped up as if they were just having a rest. And at a glance it appeared as if that's all that was happening. Four men in dark clothing who happened to have all taken a nap in a dank tunnel that no one had been in for years and which connected to nothing significant in the upper portion of the palace for several floors.

It was only when one got closer that it was apparent what had happened. Zevran narrated through their injuries.

"This was how they were found – we have not moved them. The first was stabbed in the back, between his ribs in an upward motion, puncturing his lung and heart in one blow. He was probably gripped around the face or throat to keep him from crying out. Then the second man was killed in a nearly identical fashion – his throat is actually crushed as well. The third – his throat was collapsed inward to keep him from crying out, but it took longer for him to die. He may have been left to flop around like a fish until he stopped breathing."

Zevran stopped in front of the last body and though Alistair did not need to have it explained to him to see what was done, Zevran explained anyway. "This man was tortured. His nails were pried off, the tiny cuts on his arms are made by razors and sting a great deal when rubbed, which you can see was done from the way the blood is smeared. He is missing his left eyelid and both of his nostrils have been slit. In addition to all of that," Zevran knelt and motioned for the lantern to be brought closer. He put his fingers into a hole over the man's knee and, ripping it, revealed the destroyed mass of flesh and cartilage underneath. "A knife was inserted into the joint and twisted, like someone boring out a hole in wood."

Donal's voice was low and strained when he spoke "No other guards have been here and until we move the corpses no others will be. We are keeping this confined to just the five of us here now. It will help learn who did this if we can keep it quiet."

Alistair nodded dumbly, feeling transfixed by the man's dull eye, staring lidless into the gloom. "How long have they been here?"

"A few days most likely. Because it is warm here, the rot has been sped up. So no more than three or four days at most." Casting a look around as if to look for something to wipe his hands on, Zevran gave up and let them hang at his sides "I don't think I need to say that this was not a random killing, Alistair. In addition to the very… efficient… manner in which they were killed and the torture of this man here, the items we found on the bodies themselves are telling."

Zevran nodded to a few packs along the wall opposite side of the tunnel that had been pulled from the corpses. Crouching and opening one of them Alistair clearly saw a bundle of ropes, some pieces of cloth, and a multitude of small vials. Zevran stood over his shoulder "Items to truss someone with, a variety of non-lethal poisons that are made to debilitate but not kill, and a number of vials of a sleeping drug that, when applied to a cloth and put over someone's face, causes them to fall into a very quick and pronounced sleep. These are kidnappers, Alistair."

Feeling his blood run cold and knowing immediately what their presence there meant, he looked up at Zevran "And why were they killed?"

Zevran shrugged "It could have been one of their own who changed their mind except the torture leads me to believe that whoever did this knew they would be here but did not have all the information that they wanted. This will take some time to investigate, I am afraid."

"In the meantime, Donal, please see to it that Ser Aaron is made aware that there are additional concerns about Hawke and Fenris's safety. I don't want either of them left without an armed escort at any time, no matter how much they protest it."

"Yes, your majesty, arrangements will be made immediately."

"Good, I … I need to get out of here before I vomit on the evidence."

…..

Alistair barely slept that night, finding himself pacing on the balcony and staring out across the city instead. He understood how greed and fanaticism could drive people to do strange and sometimes terrible things. Had those men been bent on the gaining the bounty on Hawke's head? Were they adherents of the divine and there to do what they thought was her will? But more than their motivations, which would forever be truly unknown now that the men themselves were dead, was the fact that someone had stopped them. Someone had stopped them from hurting or taking or harassing Hawke and he didn't know why. The fact that it even bothered him that someone would try to help her was perhaps twisted. But he hadn't seen anyone so far in this situation outside of Fenris who acted for or against her without some deeper motivation at work. She seemed doomed to be seen as more than just a woman.

He hoped that whoever it was that currently seemed to be helping did not turn into the greater enemy.

….

After days of keeping herself sequestered, ceaselessly sending off letters, wrapping up her business ventures, laying the groundwork for new ones, and generally doing every spot of maintenance of her own finances that she would have typically avoided, Hawke woke up ridiculously early that morning. She was suddenly and startlingly awake, as if she were waking up for the first time in a very long while.

Fenris had been bringing her food and then leaving her alone; keeping anyone from entering or disturbing her while she planned and settled her affairs. He seemed to know instinctively that, whatever this mood was, it would not be improved with company. In fact, none of her moods lately were improved with company – they just strained her more. It was more difficult than she thought she would ever be able to explain.

The night before she'd gone to bed angry at herself after spending a ridiculous amount of time staring at her open journal, brooding pointlessly. Her own behavior was frustrating and it was starting to disgust her. While part of her was sure that hiding and plotting were not in her nature, another part was sure that her nature may have been altered irrevocably over the last few months. Who was she at this point? How could she define herself or know her own mind when everything was still so blurred and tumultuous? And more mysterious than who she was, was _what_ she was. Was she a collection of her life experiences with no other thought or driving, collective personality behind it? It had never bothered her before, the way that people defined her. In fact, it had usually made introductions far easier since people already had a strong sense of what to expect. Their own fevered imaginations took care of most of the work for her. But now it mattered dearly what people thought. Suddenly it was extremely important to know exactly who she was and how the world as a whole should know her. The change in her circumstances had her off balance. She had nothing to compare all this to and new territory had never scared her this much. Because she'd never had so much to lose on a personal level.

Dreams of all her misdeeds haunted her and kept her from sleep ever since Kirkwall, wearing her down and causing her to feel like something of a ghost herself. She only smiled with conscious thought. She only laughed on cue. Pretending she was fine until she didn't have to pretend anymore felt ridiculous and doomed to fail – but she didn't know what else to do. If she gave in to the well of… emptiness… that was sitting in her core she didn't think she'd ever come back out.

That morning, however, her decisions were made, her direction as clear as it was apt to get. She washed and threw on one of the sets of leggings and a tunic that a chambermaid had delivered to her room. She was going to leave this room but she knew that she couldn't use the door. Ser Aaron or one of his fellows would be there, and this was something she needed to do alone. Strapping on a hip bag with some supplies, she went to a window and took a good look at the latch and how it opened from the inside and the outside. Then she went through it and out onto the ledge. Thankfully she didn't have to inch along it for long before she was able to drop down onto a wider portion of the wall that ran around that wing of the palace. Given that she got so thoroughly lost in the hallways the last time she'd ventured out by herself, it was probably foolish of her to attempt this at all, but she had woken up with the idea and it wouldn't leave her until she tried it. She made herself smile at the thought of having to be rescued from the wall at some point later in the day once Fenris realized she was gone and resolved not to let that happen.

She made it down to another section of wall that dead ended, causing her to have to scale a portion to get to the next level. Thankfully this was an old palace. Well built, of course, but old. And old masonry is much easier to work fingers and toes into. She made it up that portion of the wall and realized just what a ridiculously lucky fool she was because the balcony she was looking for on a hunch was just above her. With a leap, she was able to grab onto the bottom edge and pull herself up using just her arms until she was able to swing a leg up and leverage herself up the rest of the way. Peeking over the edge she was gratified to see she'd found her target. _"Make a terrible assassin" my ass, Zevran._

Vaulting over the balcony edge, she landed lightly and made her way to the double glass doors, which were ridiculously and stupidly unlocked. _That's a conversation for later, that's for sure._ Pulling out a small vial from her pouch, she applied oil to the hinges and then carefully eased the door open. She slunk in low, keeping to the few shadows that were still clinging in the nearly pre-dawn. She was in a sitting room and there were several doors that lead off of this room. Several chairs arranged in groups, a fireplace, a small desk with a thoughtlessly open ink well and several quills lying nearby. In a small glass fronted cabinet to one side was a collection she couldn't help but stop and admire. Tiny carved figures of all different types and materials were ranged across the shelves along with various runes laid out at intervals, seemingly randomly. While this was a display case, it was obvious that the figures did not collect much dust and that this was functional. The owner took these figures out frequently, moved them around. Golems and tiny warriors and knights, some clearly Ferelden, others their barbarian forebears, Avvars, mountain folk, elves, dwarves. It was like the entire history of the people of Ferelden carved in a wide variety of materials and living together in a single curio cabinet.

Realizing she was lingering when she shouldn't be, Hawke looked again to the doors. One went to the hall based on its location in the room, and two others lead to the right or the left. She headed to the left, applying oil to the hinges of the door first and discovering that once again the door was unlocked. Thankfully it was the right room and she quickly moved in and closed the door behind her. Again slinking low to the ground, she approached the bed and watched the figure there breathing deeply, face slack in sleep, looking peaceful. As slowly and quietly as she could she went around the other side of the bed, noticing that, despite being the only one in it they only slept on one side as if they were more accustomed to narrow beds. She pulled off the pack she was wearing and her boots.

Carefully she lowered herself down onto the bed on top of the covers and pushed up against them, sliding her arm around their midsection, pleased when they didn't stir at all. Smiling, she closed her eyes and let herself drift back off to sleep.

…..

When Alistair woke up, he realized that there was an arm around him. There was breath on his neck. There was a warm body pressed up against his back. And it was such an alien way to wake up that for a moment he was sure that he was still asleep. He'd been having a ridiculous dream about having a tournament where Mabari did backflips and the highest backflip won and their reward was an enormous bowl of lamb and pea stew. So he was fairly certain that this wasn't actually a continuation of that dream. Unless he discovered that he was being hugged by a grateful Mabari when he finally turned his head. Instead of shattering the illusion just yet, he looked down at the hand resting on his stomach and pulled back the sleeve. For some reason he thought that looking at the hand might help. And shockingly it did. The pale scars on the wrist made it clear that this was Hawke.

Somehow he'd woken up with Hawke in his bed. He was sure he'd gone to bed alone but, still blurry headed, considered that maybe he hadn't. Maybe there was some chunk of time in the last evening that he'd mysteriously forgotten and it had involved having Hawke in his bed. It seemed impossible.

Giving up on it making any sense, he turned over. Hawke was waking up and grinning at him, with a sleepy look on her face. "Hi."

Alistair wasn't sure what to say. So he just blinked at her before giving up on anything that might make sense. "Hi."

"We have to have a serious discussion about your poor use of locks"

"Is… that why you're in my bed? To talk to me about locks?"

"No, it's just a byproduct. But seriously, locks, Alistair. You need to use them. And you need to get some better ones. And you need to plaster over the wall outside this room to make it slippery. A few false-floored dead falls along the walls wouldn't hurt either for intruders along this inner circle. The structure of this section of palace provides fantastic protection against ballistae, but none at all against men who would scale the thing. Given what you know about assassins it's a terrible oversight on your part in your own defense."

"Is that all?" He was smiling now. He turned toward her more fully and realized that she was fully dressed and laying on top of the covers. So he hadn't forgotten anything afterall. Resting his hand on her waist he leaned forward and kissed her forehead. "So what brought this on?"

"The shoddy security you have in this place. It's ridiculous."

"No, no… why are you here?"

"You invited me. Wagons and walking and tents – don't tell me you've forgotten." She was having a very hard time keeping a straight face at this point.

Alistair sighed and pulled her to him suddenly, planting his lips against hers and kissing her soundly. She writhed up against him and while he'd only intended to knock the silliness out of her he honestly didn't want to stop. Eventually, when he realized that he was actually naked under a thin sheet and she was depressingly clothed, he pulled back from her and kissed the tip of her nose. "Why are you in my bed, Hawke?"

She was flushed and her eyes were half lidded with something more than sleep now and she breathed out, barely a whisper "Because I wanted to be."

"I'm not complaining, not at all. I'm just… surprised."

Hawke smiled at him and sat up, moving around so that she was sitting beside him, facing him, legs crossed. She took a moment to compose her thoughts, her expression earnest. "I realized last night that I've been feeling sorry for myself, hiding. I think I maybe earned a little bit of it – but not as much as I've been wallowing in. I've been wasting time. I want to be here. I want to be here with you. And while I have plenty of things still hanging over my head that will have to be dealt with I'm tired of feeling half dead all the time. I know that you are very busy and have a lot to keep you occupied." A smile started to creep across her face "But I'll find ways to get what time I can."

Alistair entwined his fingers with hers. "You could have used the door."

"A guard would have woken you up. Besides, I wanted to get some practice being sneaky."

Alistair pulled Hawke down beside him again and held her to his chest, pressing his nose into her hair. "I don't think you need practice being sneaky." He kissed the top of her head and let out a long breath. "I could get used to this, you know. You're going to spoil me."

"That's the plan, Alistair."

And with the way she smiled up at him, knowingly, like she had it all figured out, he could believe that.

They laid there together for another hour or so, only talking in little bursts here and there but mostly just enjoying holding each other, their hands twisting together, her head nuzzling further against his chest or his neck. Alistair realized he had meetings that he had to get ready for, but he was reluctant to even bring it up. He wanted to cancel everything and hide in his room here with her all day. Only the fact that he was going to be working on things that would directly impact their potential future life together forced him to finally say something. To avoid any questions, Hawke went out the way she came in, complaining the whole way about the shoddy security in the palace and how she was going to talk to Zevran and Donal about getting that taken care of immediately. He watched her from the balcony as she went, thinking how ridiculous it was that he was watching the woman he loved scaling walls and balancing on ledges above a precipitous drop and how it felt almost… normal. They had plans to meet for breakfast and he was feeling a little giddy about the whole thing. It had been a pretty spectacular way to wake up after doing a terrible job of not worrying about her every minute of every day for the last week. Now that she was here in Denerim, a single day without seeing her and speaking to her left him feeling hollow.

He breezed through two rather short meetings he'd slated for that morning to talk to some of the Banns about how their land rehabilitation was going. So far it seemed all was still well, but he knew that the attitude in the Bannorn could change with the wind and that he should keep a close eye on the developments there. He practically whistled on his way down the hall to the small dining room where he'd asked Hawke to meet him and was gratified to find that she and Noodle were the only ones in attendance.

"I waited for you to eat. Noodle was not so considerate"

The warhound bounded over to Alistair and rubbed up against his legs like a cat "I couldn't expect such an obviously ravenous beast to wait on me to eat." Noodle shot a look at Hawke that seemed to say "see, _HE_ understands." And she just smiled back at both of them.

They settled in and began to eat, servants sweeping in with food the moment the king was settled in a chair. They passed the meal in happy chatter, with Hawke able to jump neatly from topic to topic as if she had some idea of what she wanted to touch on and Alistair was happy to oblige, even when the mental leaps were a little confusing. How she could go from talking about what shops were in the marketplace to the exact types of grains used in the bread they were eating was beyond him. But he was so happy to have her there looking sound and happy that he didn't care. When Noodle padded over and sat directly between them, earning scratches on both sides of his head at the same time, Alistair was struck by how right this all felt. Like he had a family suddenly.

"You know, I have something to show you. I hope this isn't a ridiculously bad time to bring it up but I know that if I found it humorous you might also."

Alistair pulled out the sheaf of papers he'd been thumbing through for the last several days and handed them over to Hawke who began eagerly reading them. After a few moments of confusion, she flipped through the stack and read some of the content deeper in. "Let me guess, Eamon's been collecting evidence?" she smirked up at him.

"Apparently. He also seems believes that this stack of testimony would clearly show me the truth of your nature."

"You'll let me talk to Eamon about these directly, right?"

Smiling broadly, Alistair nodded "I hoped you would say that. The fact is that I have a meeting with Anora today that I could use some… distractions… for. If you could talk to Eamon about this while I talk to Anora I am sure he would find himself sufficiently tied up."

"Oh, it would be my pleasure, Kingy," setting the papers aside, Hawke sat back with her cup and took a sip "When do you think I'll meet Anora? Or are we keeping me under wraps to not upset the nobles?"

Laughing Alistair shook his head "No, I'm not keeping you hidden from anyone – especially not Anora." Looking around conspiratorially, Alistair scooted his chair closer and leaned his face in to the curtain of her hair. He began whispering to Hawke about his plans to remove Eamon entirely and replace him with Anora, hence all the secret meetings and the need to keep Eamon out of them.

Hawke smirked at him and murmured quietly "so really my going there and explaining all these statements to him is adding insult to injury."

Alistair still had his face nestled in to her neck and ear "You could say that."

"I think secret time might be over Alistair."

"Good thing I didn't scoot over here for secrets then, hmm?" He kissed her neck just behind her ear, making her laugh, before he straightened up. "I think I'll have a dinner sometime this week. Anora should be in attendance for that as well as some of the Arls and Banns who haven't yet made it home for the harvest season yet. Do you think you could talk Fenris into attending in something other than his armor?"

Hawke laughed "You want me to take him to a tailor?"

"Or at least convince him to let my valet take some measurements and find something appropriate. It won't be highly formal but I don't want there to be an immediate reaction to him based on something as pointless as how he's dressed."

"He's used to it, you know. You don't have to try to protect him."

"Then the both of you can just think of it as me being selfish and frivolous."

"It's going to be difficult getting him into a pair of shoes. I hope your valet has a lot of good explanations prepared as to why gaiters are not appropriate."

Alistair grinned "You keep him alive and he'll do all the convincing that needs to be done. He was the one who finally talked me out of wearing plate armor every day for the rest of my life."

"We'll see how it goes." Hawke reached out and took his hand. "I am going to go harass Eamon. How long do you think you'll need?"

"At least enough time to get Anora in here – maybe 20 minutes."

Hawke looked vaguely disappointed "Is that all? I could do that without the wads of evidence, Alistair. Give a girl a _challenge_."

Alistair kissed her hand and they rose together "Well, feel free to take as long as you like."

Hawke dropped into a perfect courtly curtsy and smirked up at him before rising. "I'll make a morning of it. He and I haven't had a chance to talk yet, after all. I think it would do us both some good to get to know one another. We're bound to be fast friends."

Alistair walked Hawke to the door her hand on his arm with Noodle following behind them. He wanted to feel lighthearted about the whole thing, following her lead, but he was also very aware of just how Eamon's temper could flare. "Take Noodle with you."

Hawke shook her head," You worry too much. But I'll bring him with me." She began to walk down the hall away from him in the direction of Eamon's offices before abruptly turning around. "Oh! Ask Anora for a recommendation for a seamstress or tailor who will come here. I'm sick of," Hawke pulled out the waist of the dress, emphasizing how poorly it fit "all my dresses looking like this."

Alistair grinned at her and put on his best over the top solicitous voice, "I hadn't noticed, my dear Lady Marian, you look beautiful in anything you wear."

Hawke called back over her shoulder "Still a little heavy handed with the flattery, your majesty. Try, try again!"

While he watched, Ser Aaron peeled away from the wall and fell into step behind Hawke. He'd been informed of the killings in the tunnels under the palace because Donal thought it best that her personal guard be well informed. But it had seemed to make him less willing to change shifts with his fellow guards, as if he were the only person who could properly protect her.

Only a few moments later Anora met him at the side entrance they'd agreed to use and they quickly made their way to his study. All of the major pieces of the plan were in place, which consisted mostly of understanding just who in the palace was under Eamon's employ or influence so that they could be replaced all at once. Alistair was surprised at some of those on the list and realized that his assumptions about Eamon's reach had once again been incorrect. None of them were in roles that were key to the day to day running of things and that was likely on purpose. If they were replaced or moved, their asbsence wouldn't draw much attention. Anora also had reccomendations for most of their replacements, most of whom already worked in the castle and had proven difficult to get information out of when questioned by the right people. They both had agreed that a staff made up of spies was risky at best and that it would be far better to replace Eamon's network with steadfast people who at least could be counted on not to gossip or spread potentially sensitive information for coin. They took their jobs and their commitment to the crown seriously.

After nearly an hour of talking, Anora worried that they might soon be interrupted.

"Oh I don't think that will be an issue."

…

"Please, Marian, you do not need to continue to go through this list. This was never meant for your eyes to begin with." Eamon sighed and rubbed his temples. They'd only gotten through a small number of the statements he'd gathered and he already sorely regretted giving it to the King. Of course he'd have handed it over to her. And of course there would be those in the list of statements that were people who simply held a grudge for some reason. He hadn't expected her to show up unannounced and individually explain each one.

"But it does pertain to me, your grace, and I would like the opportunity to put some of the more egregious statements here in context. If this were a court, I'd have the right to answer the claims against me, would I not?"

"Of course, Marian, but this is not a court."

Smiling in a way that looked for all the world like the sweet, open look of someone who simply wanted to explain themselves, she nodded "I understand, your grace, but you would use these statements in the same manner. Please, I simply want you to be completely aware of the circumstances surrounding many of these claims against me, if only for your own peace of mind regarding my friendship with his majesty and my current presence here in the palace. I am sure that if you had rumors and falsehoods spread about you that you would have relished the opportunity to set them straight, yes?"

Eamon had to hand it to her – she was charming in a way that was difficult to say no to. She sounded utterly reasonable and earnest. The way the early afternoon light filtered into the room through the tall windows caught at the flecks of color in her eyes. She was somehow at once completely rooted in normalcy and possessed of something that was rather beguiling. He wasn't sure if it was the multi-colored hazel of her eyes, the nearly exotic tanned darkness of her skin, or simply the way she spoke, unafraid and self-assured. She was a beautiful woman. Not in the way that Isolde or other women of the court were. She wasn't delicate or polished like they were and she was frankly not to his personal taste at all, but as he watched her shuffle through the notes he'd made, looking for something specific to address, he could see just how many men might fall to their knees in front of her had she been born into the right sort of family. And plenty who would fall to their knees regardless of her family. The fact that she was both beautiful and charming was a combination that he might have used to his favor had he met her under better circumstances. As it was, she was a noble from another country; a refugee and a wanted criminal. She was a nuisance and a disaster for this kingdom waiting to happen. And she was sitting there in his office being so utterly reasonable that he hadn't found a way yet to dismiss her.

"Ah! A statement from Glynnis Winters' brother I believe. He says that I slaughtered his sister in cold blood as well as a small regiment of their men, interfering with official business from the Viscount." Hawke laid the papers on her lap and smiled up at Eamon. "Glynnis threatened to cut out the tongue of Viscount Dumar's son, Seamus. I intervened. The Viscount was quite pleased with the result and even Seneschal Brann, who at that time was not counted as a friend, admitted that it was good to be rid of one of the more disreputable mercenary bands who preyed on those in the Free Marches."

Eamon, of course, already knew the details of most of these statements but had used them anyway in the hope that, by appealing to Alistair's sentimental nature toward families, he may sway his opinion on this woman. He also knew that Alistair disliked mercenaries and assassins, saw them as dishonorable. He didn't need these additional tidbits of information and he wasn't sure what she was actually accomplishing or hoping to accomplish by doing this.

"I see complaints from a madam for killing one of her whores – a blood mage who tried to get me to slit my own throat. My former business partner Hubert, who mistreated his workers and disdained them all for being Ferelden refugees, also made a complaint. He only kept any of them as long as he did because I visited them and killed the dragons that took up residence there. Athenril, the woman I was sold into indentured servitude for, stated to your men that I took up her smuggling business after I left her employ, which is an utter lie." Shuffling through the stack of papers, she quickly read down the list of statements on the following pages. "You have complaints here from Coterie who felt I was interfering with their racket, the families of blood mages who were attacking people in the city, a corrupt city guardsmen who was setting up payments to be stolen off his own guards with no thought to their survival, and the servants of the blood mage who was in league with Quentin – a man who made my mother into a walking stitched together horror and killed many other women and a Templar in the process." Sighing, Hawke smiled at Eamon with a sad cast to her features. "It is quite a list, your grace. And I understand how, if someone were to read this, they may assume that I am all of these things that I am accused of and more."

Tiring of this game, Eamon came around the desk and walked toward her. The warhound who had appeared to be sleeping let out a low, rumbling growl when he got close to her so he stopped where he was and leaned forward, snatching the papers out of her hand. Flipping through the stack he found what he'd been looking for. "What of Castillon, a successful merchant from Antiva who crossed your path and wound up dead? His family in Antiva are still outraged that that crime went completely unpunished in Kirkwall due to the fact that the Knight-Commander was focused almost entirely on mages at that point."

"Castillon, a successful merchant? I suppose you could look at it that way. He made a handsome profit selling people. A lot of people. After he was dead, I gave his ship to a woman he'd been hunting for years."

"So you admit that you killed someone for personal gain."

"No, I admit that I killed him. We went there so that my friend could set up some sort of business deal with him only to find out that Castillon's primary trade was in slaves. Slavery is, need I remind you, still quite illegal throughout Thedas with the exception of the Tevinter Imperium. The captain of the Kirkwall guard was with me at the time and can attest to the fact that Castillon requested a duel – which I granted him."

Frustrated now, Eamon tossed the papers back at her, which caused her to smirk at him. It was the first outward indication she'd given that she knew very well that she was simply playing with him and it rankled him in a way he hand not felt for some time. Most people simply knew better than to try to toy with him. "The fact remains, Marian, that you are wanted by the Chantry for your crimes in Kirkwall. You will not escape having to answer for your actions there. No matter what Alistair may think or may have told you, a king cannot simply wave his hand and make something like that go away."

With a surprising fire in her expression and a steely cadence she stared him down – a feat considering he was standing over her, "Your grace, I look forward to having my actions weighed and judged by the authorities in that matter. Perhaps it will help put to rest the waves of," here she lifted the sheaf of papers into the air "ridiculous, false, and utterly pathetic rumors that have continued to surround both that incident in particular and what seems to be the entire span of my time in Kirkwall." She paused a moment and cast her eyes back down to the papers. In a tone closer to the simple politeness she'd been using to that point, she continued. "I did note the curious lack of complaints from any of the supposedly better corners of Kirkwall. Not a lot of nobles willing to speak out against me, I take it?"

"Apparently killing a Qunari leader in front of them tends to put them in fear of their lives." Eamon practically growled at her.

Hawke laughed lightly, though without the overt tones of innocence or sincerity she'd used before. "Or make them realize that they'd all be dead or forced converts the Qun had I not fought him. I find those born to nobility have a tendency to wait for others to act for them in matters large and small. Fetching their dinner, putting down Qunari invasions… ending blights. It never stops them from taking credit after the fact, though."

The undercurrent of disdain in that statement made his blood boil. They stared each other down for a moment, as Eamon struggled to hide his animosity, which just doubled when he realized that she was simply looking at him without rancor or malice anywhere in her face, one eyebrow quirked up, patiently waiting to see his reaction. How she managed to appear so calm and unflustered was beyond him. It was something he expected from those raised as nobility and raised well. Seeing the game played so deftly by someone raised a commoner felt backward and wrong. "As I recall you fled from the blight in Ferelden and were not even in the country during the civil war and darkspawn invasion."

"That is correct, your grace. I fought at Ostagar. When Loghain quit the field my brother and I fought for as long as we could and then fled with another group of commoners toward Lothering. The noble who was ruling Lothering at the time had fled himself, you see, and we knew that we could not rely on him to care for his people – my mother and sister among them."

"So you were a deserter."

With a wide smile that looked more like the baring of her teeth, Hawke nodded eagerly, "Oh absolutely. I deserted a vanquished army along with twenty or so other soldiers, half of whom died before they ever made it out of the wilds due to their wounds and the blight sickness. No one who had been on the field would have called us deserters. But then, you didn't even send a proxy, did you, so how could you possibly know the truth of things at Ostagar?"

"Since you seem to enjoy giving history lessons, I might return the favor. I had been poisoned by an agent of Loghain and was completely bedridden. It's hardly a state I would recommend giving orders in." Eamon felt he was finally finding a footing in this seemingly benign banter and her overall demeanor as he leaned back against the desk, arms folded across his chest.

"A call to arms from the king would have been answered by your knights, wouldn't it? Unless someone of rank overrode the order. Someone such as the arlessa, perhaps, might have countered the order."

"When I was well I brought my men to Denerim and provided arms and men to the Grey Wardens to use as they saw fit. I did my part during the blight and your implication that I did not is utterly false."

Hand to her chest and a look of distress on her face Hawke breathed out "Oh, your grace, I did not mean to imply such a thing. You'll have to forgive me – I am just a commoner. I'm not used to speaking with such august and learned men and must have used the wrong turn of phrase." There was a cast of sarcasm to her words but it wasn't overt.

Eamon narrowed his eyes at her, wondering where he'd lost the thread again. They had been talking for nearly two hours and he was still unable to quite get her measure. He'd only put up with it this long because he needed to find the best way to control her and, barring that, the best ways to force her out. But it was proving far more difficult than he'd expected. While her tone was always polite and solicitous, her words were often barbed. At times she seemed to be speaking utterly bluntly but at others she employed the sort of duplicitous word games he associated with the overly polite conversations he was forced to have with recalcitrant Arls. He decided in that moment that he'd initially underestimated her somehow and that it would be important to get her removed from the palace as soon as possible. Once taken away to be dealt with by the Chantry, Alistair would surely be upset but he would be far more compliant when it came to taking care of key business and giving due attention to Eamon's recommendations. This entire year had been wasted in one way or another and this woman had been a key part of that wasted time. And time was something that Eamon acutely felt that he had little of.

Hawke had looked back down at the papers in her hands and was smiling at something she read there. She shook her head as she looked up at him. "I must say, your grace, I'm impressed that you even gathered a statement from Dougal Gavorn, whose sole complaint with me was that I failed to take him up on his offer to fund my stake in the Deep Roads expedition. It's very ….thorough… of you. I wonder, did you also send agents to speak to the man I bought fruit from or the cobbler who fixed my boots?"

"It was necessary to speak to anyone who may have a sense of your… _character_", he made a point of injecting as much of a sneer as possible into the word, "given your friendship with King Alistair and your obviously unsavory associates."

"Of course it was, your grace. I understand that you have history with allowing unsavory types with questionable motives too close. A man with your perspective must by wary." Eamon had begun to pace. Where did she get all this information from? Were his trials during the blight truly such common knowledge that she could so easily learn about his past mistakes? He no longer cared that he was clearly being played with nor that he was showing her plainly how well it was working. Let her continue to speak – he was sure she would overplay her hand eventually and he'd have the opportunity to strike back.

"If you truly knew what you're speaking of, Marian, then you would know that I paid, and paid dearly for my past inability to separate my desire to please those I care for and the need to do what is right." He stopped pacing a moment and leaned closer to her, ignoring the low growl the emanated from the warhound as he did so "I have learned those lessons well and those mistakes will never again be repeated."

She nodded once "I'm glad to hear it, your grace. I am truly sorry that your son was sent to the tower."

Eamon looked at her for a moment then – he'd been expecting another barb about his failure to protect Redcliffe, the march of death and horror that his own child had helped to unleash on those poor people who were under his care. He was sure that the sympathy in her expression must be manufactured – but if it was, he'd never seen her equal in falsehoods.

He almost felt then that he'd misunderstood – that perhaps what he'd assumed were attempts at bringing him low or insulting him were simply moves toward gaining an understanding. But then she continued. "There are many lessons to be gleaned from history, ancient and recent, if one will only look for them. Loghain Mac Tir's trials come to mind, for instance."

Eamon felt as if he were on a boat in an uncharted river and had just been shot down the falls. Loghain? What new twist was this? "Indeed? What wisdom would you have me glean from that traitor?"

Marian folded her hands in her lap looking for all the world like a very patient woman explaining something to a very dense man. And perhaps that's what she was at this moment, for Eamon had thoroughly lost the plot.

"Loghain Mac Tir had every reason to distrust, dislike, hate, and revile the Orlesians. And he helped make them pay for what they did in this country, to his family and every other Ferelden's who did not bow to the Usurper. But 30 years later, the only enemy he still saw was Orlais. He abandoned the king and hundreds of soldiers to their death, he put that sadist Rendon Howe in power, he allowed torture and paranoia and lies to become his own tools of choice, inciting a civil war even as the hordes of darkspawn encroached closer to his seat of power. He chose – again and again he chose – to deny the truth of the blight and focus instead on the phantom of chevaliers that were never coming. So convinced of his correctness that he nearly killed the only people left in Ferelden capable of destroying the arch demon. And as simple as it would be to say that Loghain and his folly was finally vanquished by Ferelden's current king, it was focusing on entirely the wrong things that did him in." She then added in a much quieter voice "That and underestimating those he thought were in his way."

Eamon settled against the desk again, just watching her. He couldn't decide if he'd just been given a piece of sage advice or been threatened. Maybe it was both.

Marian eventually broke away from the long impassive stare she'd been leveling at him and rose to her feet with a slight sigh. "I believe I've taken up enough of your time, your grace. I'll leave you now."

Without even waiting for him to respond, she swept out of the room, the mabari in her wake, leaving Eamon feeling wrung out and raw.

Obviously simply convincing Alistair of the inappropriateness of her presence would not be enough. She touched too many nerves during that duel of a conversation for him to convince himself that his point of view was free of personal distrust or dislike. But he still felt strongly that he was correct. Marian Hawke would not fit in to any of his plans for Alistair or for the kingdom. He'd long been a man of planning, waiting, and subtlety. But he also knew that there was a time to act. While he wanted to keep up a good relationship with the Chantry, he could no longer wait for them to make their move.


	44. Chapter 44

Sanga, the proprietress of The Pearl was annoyed, but Zevran saw the relief sweep over her face as he made his way toward the bar. Sliding a key toward him, she nodded "Last door on the left. No one has been in since the girl found him this morning."

He inclined his head and took the key. He had taken a room at one of the smaller and seedier bars near the northern docks since they'd discovered the bodies in the tunnel. Listening in on errant conversations was far easier to do if you clearly already belonged in an establishment and, as he'd explained to Donal, he was extremely unlikely to find worthwhile information in the palace. He'd considered taking a room at the Pearl instead and was now frustrated that he hadn't gone with his first instinct. He could have been here when it happened or at least as soon as they found the body. As it was, the word he'd sent out to his contacts to keep him informed of any strange or out-of-place deaths was the only reason he'd even known about this.

The room smelled of blood and stale sweat as he opened the door. The afternoon light crept in around the edges of the flimsy curtains just enough to navigate the room and make out the still form in the bed. Carefully pulling back the cloth, he noted that the window was unlatched but that the lock had not been broken and there were no pry marks to be found. So whoever had killed the man in the bed had come up the stairs and through the door, only leaving by the window, which they'd also closed behind them.

The poor soul in the bed was your average slightly filthy mercenary type. He hadn't even gotten out of his armor, the cracks in the poor quality leather captured and channeled the rivulets of blood that had escaped his neck, creating a strange design of branching and weaving lines down the chest piece. His face was twisted into a grimace. He'd seen his death coming and was frightened of it. A single neat slash across the throat seemed to be the only wound, which could have been handled quickly and probably been completed before the victim was even aware someone was in the room with them. But the man had also urinated all over himself and there were bruises at his elbows as if he'd been held down, perhaps straddled.

Despite not truly expecting to find anything worthwhile, Zevran examined the room. A few coins in a purse, a pack with a change of clothing and a few low quality baubles, probably stolen. Sanga's messenger had marked the man as a member of one of the many Denerim street gangs, which could easily make his death one about rivalry and not at all the sort of thing Zevran was personally interested in. Despite that, rivals in gangs were far more likely to take each other out publically and leave a calling card – to them the kill is no good if blame or credit can't be assigned. The fact that this had been done without leaving so much as an errant boot mark made him sure that this was the killer he was looking for.

The question of why still remained. Without understanding this person's motivation, he could not surmise where they might move next. It had even begun to feel foolish to him, to hunt down someone who was clearly protecting Hawke. But he had agreed with Alistair on that point at least – understanding why they were doing it, what they expected to gain, it was necessary. If someone were doing this well at uncovering and putting down plots to capture her with such speed and efficiency, that same focus applied to capturing her themselves would certainly be far more difficult to stop if they decided to take her.

Through the weeks of travel and the few longer conversations they'd had, he'd come to respect Hawke a great deal - but respect for her did not erase the fact that her presence around Alistair was dangerous. His promise to Solona regarding Alistair had been to protect him, even from himself if necessary. He wished, not for the first time, that Solona was here. He missed her dearly, of course. Not a day passed when he didn't desire her presence. But she had also known Alistair on some deep, innate level that he'd never been able to manage himself. She would understand this situation better, she would know what to do.

Feeling rudderless, he made his way to the main room. He would send people to take care of the corpse and the ruined mattress and Sanga promised that as soon as she knew more about who the man had been she would let him know. For now it would have to be enough but Zevran was sure that they were running out of time.

….

Looking around the room, Alistair felt a strange sense of disconnection. It all seemed a little surreal, especially the way that Anora and Hawke were leaned toward each other, talking intently. They hadn't seemed to speak to anyone else all night. He didn't think that they would clash, necessarily, but the way they fell into such easy conversation had been a surprise. A few of the Banns who were still in attendance in the city seemed to be splitting their time between trying to cajole Alistair into taking their side in one thing or another and simply watching both Hawke and Anora.

Hawke was an anomaly to these men – she was new, she was different, and her reputation preceded her. The day before, after a very long conversation with Hawke, Alistair had finally composed and sent off a letter to the Divine in Orlais, requesting that she send an agent to work out some way to satisfy their needs without requiring Hawke to go to them directly or be dealt with by a local authority. His hope was that Lelianna was still close enough to the center of power there that the Divine would use her as a proxy. He felt Hawke stood a better chance with Lelianna than with one of the various Seekers who could be sent. He also hoped that Lelianna would be more sympathetic in general – especially with his part in keeping Hawke away from the Chantry since her arrival in Denerim. Of course, the interest the Banns in the room were expressing in Hawke wasn't just because of her reputation, it was helped along by the fact that she was beautiful in a way that was not common among noble women and that the tailor Anora had sent them had managed to alter the dresses she had so that they were almost indecently fitted to her body down to the swell of her hips. Every time she leaned forward for her glass Alistair saw a roomful of eyes follow her.

Anora drew interest because she always did and probably always would. Even among her peers she stood out clearly. She was very pretty, striking in a way that he knew many men coveted. But she was also known to be fierce, intelligent, and sly. There had been some sort of expectation, Alistiar knew, that her years in Fort Drakon would have removed the edge from her sharp mind or broken her will in some way. While her disposition had certainly been tempered, she was no less of a force to be reckoned with than ever before and it seemed to make most of the men in the room nervous – a fact that made Alistair have to choke back a grin.

Watching the two of them together probably should have made him uncomfortable, but it really didn't. In his mind, Hawke getting to know Anora and the two of them being comfortable with one another would be important given that his plan was to have one as his regent and one as his queen. The fact that he'd managed to tell everyone over the last several weeks except Hawke herself that he had every intention of marrying her would seem strange if he let himself think of it that way so he absolutely did not allow himself to think of it that way. If she had a father, he'd already have made several visits to him and asked for his blessings. The problem was that, without even a family member closer than an uncle that she barely knew and a cousin she hadn't known existed until a few years ago, the question of the usual protocol went right out the window. Honestly, he might have to ask permission from Fenris and Noodle.

And thinking of Fenris, it was amazing what his valet could talk a person into. Fenris seemed to sense that he'd been taken advantage of by someone far more compelling than he had any right to be. But the set of clothing he wore was entirely complimentary, the dark green of the shirt bringing out his eyes and the cut of the coat emphasizing his shoulders without making him look bulky. If there were more women in attendance or men who weren't too aware of the king to allow their eyes to wander, Alistair was sure that there would be an embarrassment of coquettish looks being thrown at the elf. And Hawke had even managed to talk him into a pair of shoes. Fenris walked in them like they were actively breaking his bones with every step, but while seated he looked dashing.

Dinner had been over for quite a while and they'd moved the whole group to one of the sprawling sitting rooms adjacent to the main dining hall. He'd been trying to catch Hawke's eye for at least the last twenty minutes and completely failing. It shouldn't have struck him as poorly as it did, but he wanted to get her alone. The dark brown silk of the dress she was wearing would have looked dowdy on most women. But the way it was cut to her shape, with gathers low on her hips and across the back that emphasized the dip of her waist above the flare of her backside and hips, along with the still burnished quality to her skin made her look healthy and radiant in a very subdued way. He knew that it was fashionable to be pale – it implied a certain status. But her tanned skin and the ruddiness of her cheeks brought out by the wine she'd been sipping made him sure that, were he to press his face to her neck, she would be warm and probably even perfumed with that lemony bergamot extract she favored. More than anything he just wanted the business with the Chantry to be completed so that he could court her properly. Private dinners and flowers delivered to her room and long walks in the gardens before the weather shifted were what he thought of most often. He also knew that she was beginning to chafe at her confinement and had found her more often than not wandering the halls or sitting in the kitchens talking to the cooks and their staff, trading raucous jokes and stories. Maybe she needed some time with someone who wasn't him. As little as he liked to admit it, he knew that Hawke was accustomed to having a great many people around her at any given time and he was probably a poor substitute for the multitude of personalities she'd interacted with in Kirkwall.

Eventually most of the Banns in attendance excused themselves, despairing of ever getting the king's full attention. Fenris too slinked off at some point, probably just to burn the shoes he'd been wearing. Unexpectedly Anora appeared at his arm. He'd been lost in thought, staring into the fire place and hadn't noticed her approach.

"Your Majesty, I believe that someone may be feeling somewhat neglected, though she would probably not actually admit to it."

Alistair wasn't sure what she meant by that so he decided to play dumb. "I would think you wouldn't have any trouble saying you felt neglected, Anora."

She let out that tinkling little laugh that she used when she was being politic. It was utterly fake, and he'd already told her on more than one occasion how much he disliked fake laughter being leveled at him.

"That's why it should be obvious that I was not talking about me. I've completely monopolized her for the evening. She did a remarkable job of keeping the longing looks to a minimum while most of the company was in attendance but over the last half hour or so it's become impossible to keep her on a single topic for longer than a sentence or two." Alistair looked over to Hawke, who had been cornered by Arl Wulff. He could see that overly cheerful look on her face that he knew signaled that he was asking uncomfortable questions, but she seemed to be handling him well enough.

"I also noticed, your majesty, the intense puppy dog stares you've been casting at her all night. My tailor _is_ something of a miracle worker, but I'm not so sure it's just the dress. I know I am not yet your regent nor your advisor in any official capacity, but might I offer you a bit of advice on this topic?"

Alistair blinked at her a few times. He hadn't realized he'd been that obvious this evening. But then it was possible Anora simply had keener senses than those around him. Arl Wulff let out a great bellow of a laugh and took Hawke's hand, kissing and then patting it as she grinned at him, obviously charming the stuffing out of the man, something Alistair had never been able to do.

"Of course, Anora, I welcome your advice in all matters, official or not."

Dropping her voice, Anora moved slightly closer, "Then, your majesty, I suggest you simply ask her. Make it official, announce her as your betrothed. You will not be able to get away with these sorts of functions for long without it becoming obvious what your intentions are. And it may even benefit the issue with the Chantry – they are far more likely to be delicate about how they handle the questioning and any repercussions if she is not just your guest, but your intended."

"Don't you think that's premature? She's only been here a few weeks, after all. I would think it would look odd announcing a marriage so quickly."

"Of course it wouldn't, Alistair. Outside of childhood betrothals, most marriage contracts happen far more quickly. Just because she's only been in Ferelden for under two months doesn't mean that the process hasn't been underway for much longer. If there is a question about it, we will come up with a suitable explanation."

"A lie, you mean."

Anora sighed, "No, a suitable explanation. I don't think there's a reason to lie at all. After all – you met in an official capacity nearly two years ago in the Viscount's keep in the presence of your advisor and a great many of the king's guard as well as the Guard Captain of Kirkwall. Any other king would have thrown her on a ship and hauled her back immediately. You've been far more chivalrous than needed in the eyes of the country. And your people are eager to see you wed."

Anora let that sink in for a moment before adding, "You've found yourself a folk hero, you realize."

Alistair furrowed his brows, "What do you mean by that? A folk hero?"

"Erlina has been keeping an ear out for talk among the commoners in Denerim. For all her supposed crimes, Marian Hawke is a hero to them. She's The Black Fox incarnate, a vanquisher of Qunari, a self-made woman of Ferelden roots. Shopkeepers have been pulling down the bounty notices and framing the things, for Maker's sake, Alistair."

Alistair considered that. It hadn't occurred to him that the common people of Ferelden might react so strongly to her. It certainly made his decision easier to explain. "But the nobles, Anora. They aren't going to see it the same way. You know from personal experience how they feel about anyone who was raised as a commoner – especially when it comes to proximity to the crown."

Anora sighed and took both his hands. It was a surprisingly bold gesture in a room that still contained people who would certainly notice it. "Hang the nobles, Alistair." She had such a resolute look on her face that for a moment he couldn't believe she'd just said that. He spluttered out a laugh.

"I mean it, Alistair. You have come too far too quickly to worry about stepping on their toes. Let me worry about the fallout. That's my job. Or will be, anyway."

Alistair just stared at her for a moment. It was amazing to think that maybe this is what he'd been missing all along – a regent who was working for him not at him. He felt overwhelmingly grateful for her just then. If they'd been alone he might have even hugged her. As it was, he simply squeezed her hands. "Thank you, Anora. I can't tell you how much it means to have someone on my side, even when I'm doing something potentially foolish."

Dropping his hands, Anora shook her head "I've seen too much to think that there's anything foolish about this. Besides – she surprised me. She's not as polished as she could be, she relies on humor far too often and she obviously dislikes being in a position where she's noticed or she stands out. But that can be learned just as you learned it. She cares about this country and she cares about you. If she can apply half the determination she used in Kirkwall to her life here then I think the two of you are going to make a formidable pair."

Alistair smiled at her. The thought of Hawke leading with him, even if it was from behind closed doors, was an incredibly appealing thought. "Do you think she'll say yes?"

"There's only one way to know. But first things first, go rescue her from Arl Wulff. If I know him, and I do, he'll have already started in on talking about fox hunting and that conversation can go on for hours, with or without a willing participant."

Alistair nodded and made his way across the room toward Hawke. She looked attentive as Wulff waved his hands in the air and leaned in here and there to emphasize a point.

"… Of course the hounds do the majority of the work upfront but part of the whole experience is to know which hounds to breed and train in the first place. It's a year round sport , really – a lifetime sport if I'm being honest since you often spend so much time in the care of the dogs."

"I had no idea that fox hunting was so involved, your grace. Somehow I thought it was a bunch of people getting on horses and following dogs for hours through the woods."

"Well there are many who see it as an excuse to have a picnic and gossip, but I've always taken it far more seriously. We may be having a hunt before the weather turns. You should join us in West Hill. I understand that you are quite formidable in battle. You should come and test your mettle in the hunt – it's quite a different set of skills."

Alistair chose that moment to let his presence be known "Should I be offended that you've invited Lady Marian within a few hours of meeting her but in all these years I've never once had the pleasure?"

Wulff laughed "Of course not, your majesty. You are always welcome at the hunt and in West Hill. However, I think we can all agree that Lady Marian's company would be a far more alluring prize." Here Wulff took Hawke's hand and kissed it again. He'd obviously had quite a few drinks and while he was attempting to be polite and solicitous it was, instead, coming across as licentious. Hawke merely smiled at the Arl indulgently as he spent far too long lingering over her knuckles.

"I thought, your grace, that the prize was the hunt, not the company."

Wulff let out that same bellowing bark of a laugh, as if laughing honestly always caught him off guard and had to be forcefully expelled from him. "Of course it is, my lady. But keeping the company of beautiful women is its own reward."

"You're too kind, your grace. I look forward to attending a hunt and meeting your wife and children. I understand from Bann Sighard that you've recently entered into a marriage arrangement for your daughter."

"Yes, we have. While it will be a few years yet until they are actually married, we feel that it is a good match. Oswyn is still handsome, though he will always walk with a limp. It was gratifying, really that Siobahn was so pleased with the match."

"Well I hope to have the opportunity to congratulate them myself, your grace."

Only then did Arl Wulff realize that he'd been maneuvered into a conversation that he had no real way to continue. "Yes, I'm sure they would appreciate that. The hour has grown late, I believe I will retire. Thank you for your hospitality, your majesty, and I do hope to speak to you again soon about the tariff issue I mentioned earlier."

"Of course, Arl Wulff. I am sure you will have plenty of opportunities to make your opinion on the matter clear." It was a clear dismissal and the Arl bowed to them both before making his way out of the room. Anora was deftly ushering out the rest of the lingering guests as Alistair gestured toward the settee placed near the fire and Hawke, shooting a thankful smile at Anora, snatched up her glass as she went toward it. Settled into the close seat together, Alistair half turned toward Hawke just as the door was closed and they found themselves alone for the first time in almost two days.

"You seemed to handle that well."

Sighing heavily and flopping back as if the air had been let out of her, Hawke laughed "Did I? I was sure at any moment I'd burst into flames from the way everyone was boring holes through me with their eyes. For a group of people who choose their words so carefully, they certainly speak enough through their looks."

Alistair nodded knowingly. "Honestly, you get used to it. If they aren't willing to craft a way to say what they're thinking then I try to ignore it. Trying to keep ahead of all the rumor and opinion is like trying to direct the wind to your will."

They were quiet for a moment, both sipping their drinks. The firelight caught the highlights in Hawke's hair and for the first time he realized how much it had grown since he'd found her in Rivain. The waves in her tresses were starting to become evident again at the ends where they brushed along her collar bones. Alistair reached out and brushed one side back over her shoulder, letting his fingertip trace a path along her skin. "I noticed you always wear your hair down." He was gratified to see the little twitch in her shoulders, the little shiver from his touch.

"It's a luxury, really. In Kirkwall I always had to keep it bound up tightly. Any handhold in a fight is dangerous and unfortunately everywhere you go in Kirkwall you run the risk of becoming embroiled in something that you have to fight your way out of. When it gets longer I'll have to start doing something with it, but for now it feels pretty fantastic just letting it go."

"It suits you, I think. As does this dress." Leaning forward, Alistair indulged his earlier impulse and placed a light kiss to the curve of her neck, breathing in and feeling the warmth of her skin on his cheek. "As does this scent."

Hawke let out a nearly silent sigh and tilted her head slightly, giving Alistair all the invitation he needed to continue. He placed little, lingering kisses up her neck to just under her ear. He murmured against her skin "I've wanted to do that all night."

Hawke turned her face and pressed her cheek to his. "You've barely looked at me. I thought you were embroiled in politics."

Alistair brought one hand up to her face and kissed her lips. "I fooled you then. Hopefully I fooled everyone else as well. Frankly I thought it would be obvious that from the moment you came into the dining hall I just wanted everyone else to leave." They kissed again, their arms coming fully around each other and letting themselves get lost in each other for a time. Eventually Alistair leaned back, dragging Hawke with him and she settled against his chest, her ear to his heart while he ran his hands down her hair and shoulders.

"Anora is interesting."

Making circles with his fingers along her back, Alistair laughed lightly "Is that interesting in a good way or a bad way?"

"In a good way. Honestly interesting. With most people I feel like I have them figured out pretty quickly. She has hidden depths. I could see why women would be jealous of her poise, her intelligence. She's formidable in a way that could be downright frightening if you stood between her and something she wanted."

"You got all that from one evening of conversation? Then I'd say you have done a better job than most at figuring her out, Marian." Realizing suddenly that they truly were alone, Alistair looked around the room for a moment. "Where's Noodle?"

Hawke sat up and smiled at him "The kennel master wants to breed him. He's despairing over the name – Noodle is hardly a majestic sounding sire – but he's been practically cooing over him since the moment we arrived. His size is impressive, and apparently he has a "perfectly formed head". I said that "roughly squarish" hardly seemed perfect to me, but the kennel master insists that he's some sort of throwback to the ideal Mabari."

"So Noodle is off being given his pick of the ladies, then. I've seen him with the puppies down there – the bitches have to practically tear his face off to get him to leave them alone to feed."

"I've seen it. I'm not sure if it's just something new to play with or if Mabari feel some sort of paternal pull. I'll have to ask the kennel master about that. But for now, Alistair, I would love to get out of this dress before I put any more Alistair shaped wrinkles into it. I've also promised Fenris that we'll spar tomorrow – we're both feeling like lumps lately with lack of exercise."

"Of course." Alistair rose and took her hand to pull her up. He slid his hands around her waist and pulled her against him. He leaned down and went back to placing kisses along her neck and jaw while she ran her nails through is hair and down the back of his neck. Talking in between each kiss, "Allow me to walk you to your room and, if you're up for it, I'd like to have breakfast with you. There are some things I'd like to discuss."

"Oh that's a lovely, calming thought to go to bed with – doom in the morning."

Alistair laughed and kissed her forehead "It's nothing like that. Just plans." He tried to sound light, but in fact his stomach was flipping wildly. Even alluding to the fact that he wanted to ask her to marry him made him ridiculously nervous. He wasn't sure she would say yes. He wasn't sure she wouldn't just flee the palace and disappear. And being unsure, facing the possibility that, while she wanted him she did not want all of the many things that came with being with him – that was truly frightening.

He left her at her door, placing a chaste kiss on her hand and she curtseyed to him for the benefit of the guards. He then went to the kitchens to make a special request for the morning meal. While it was something he'd been chided for again and again he liked actually looking the cooks in the face when he made what he felt were frivolous requests for people to bring him things that he wanted. It was still somewhat alien to him that he was expected to simply demand things. Hawke told him that the staff appreciated his demeanor and the fact that he actually talked to them, though by the completely frightened scullery girl's expression he wasn't so sure about that.

As he settled into his sheets for the night he thought of the color of Hawke's eyes and hoped for long dreams of her and a restful night. He had the business of the rest of his life to deal with in the morning.

….

Fenris had only been mildly annoyed with her when she'd entered the sitting room. He was still in the clothes he'd been given, but was completely barefoot. She was sure those shoes would never been seen again. She attempted to tell him how incredibly handsome he'd looked but he was in no mood to accept the compliment. After apologizing and thanking him again for deigning to even show up, let alone stay for as long as he had, he finally went off to his room, grumbling the whole time about the things that she dragged him into.

She felt exhausted. Somehow sitting in a room full of people who did little but stare at her for hours was more tiring than just about anything else she could think of. How did Alistair manage this all the time? How do you get used to being on display like this? Thankfully she still had a room she could slink off to and excuses she could make. This had been the first dinner he'd asked her to but Anora had been sure it wouldn't be the last. As she undressed and changed into a thin shift to sleep in she thought over what she'd learned that night or tried to. But all the meaningful glances and half-snide remarks and over-heard snippets of conversation needed a stronger map than she currently had of the situation. Perhaps Anora could assist her in deciphering it. Hawke was sure that the hidden language in all of it was important to her survival there in some way and that alone gave her drive enough to understand it.

She slipped into bed and tried pointedly not to think of Alistair. She'd made that mistake the night before and had been awake for hours, tossing and turning, wanting to just slip out of the window and up into his room. It was harder all the time to be around him but keep her distance or pretend that she didn't want to press herself against him, put her lips against his skin. Even when they were alone and they kissed and held each other it never felt like enough – like fulfillment was just on the other end of some path they had not yet gone down. She wasn't sure if that was the obvious course of their physical interactions – which she was taking his lead on – or something else. And the truth was, she almost liked that feeling of never getting enough, always wanting more. There was a terrible perfection to the way that they fit together, something that felt meant to be, or would if she believed in fate. As it was, she always felt slightly out of control around him, as if at any moment she might lose herself. And while that was utterly frightening it was also exhilarating because she knew that, for once in her life, it was a loss of control she desperately wanted. She would gladly be swept along in to someone else's story as long as it was his.

Forcing herself to think about every conversation she'd had that evening in detail, she eventually drifted off to sleep wondering just how Arl Wulff explained away the clear Orlesian influences in his fox hunting rituals and if anyone had ever dared to just tell him what a bad idea it was to hold on to anything from the time of the Usurper.

She hadn't been asleep for long when there was a cry from the courtyard. She lay in bed for a moment after she woke, her hand having automatically moved to the dagger below her pillow, waiting to see if she heard more. At times the guards were a bit overly vigilant and startled at the smallest of things. She'd woken in something of a panic just a few nights prior when a guard had let out a war cry not far from her window, sure that the palace was under attack. The reprimand had been swift when 20 guards mustered to take care of the menace of a raccoon.

She continued to listen, eyes closed, prepared to let herself fall back into sleep when there was movement in her room. She didn't hear it, but felt it like a change in the air. The cries in the courtyard continued, followed by the clashing of metal, the sounds of fighting. Whoever was in her room moved again and she could feel them more clearly now. They were near the foot of the bed, moving around to the side where she lay. If it were Fenris or Alistair they'd have announced themselves. They would also have made more noise. This person moved without a sound, even when she was aware of them and actively trying to pinpoint their location. Zevran came to mind, but he would surely know better than to sneak up on her while she was in bed. She saw the light change from beneath her closed lids – the figure was bending over her – and made a decision. She swept the dagger out from the pillow and toward the figure as she opened her eyes, slicing through the man's leg before she'd even been able to completely register who or what exactly she was maiming.

He jumped back in shock as she went to her knees on the bed and scurried off the far side. She'd just cornered herself, but getting something in between them had been her goal. Taking in the details quickly, she tried to quantify the threat before her - leather armor, small weapons, muscled but slight, built for speed, not strength. The man cursed in another language and dropped the cloth he'd been carrying. With a fluid and practiced movement he unsheathed a short sword and a dagger and came at her. With only one dagger on her person and no armor, Hawke wasn't sure how long she could stand to fight this person. Using her left hand to knock away his sword arm and her dagger to knock away his, she barreled right at him, as hard as she could, knocking her forehead into his and dazing herself in the process. Her hope was that it had also dazed him. She scrambled toward her weapon stand and produced another dagger just as the sword slashed down across her back, driving a startled gasp out of her. It wasn't a deep cut, but it was long, the edges slowly beginning to burn as her skin took a moment to register the pain. The blood that pooled out of it immediately began to run down her back and legs. She spun and hit him in the temple with the hilt of one of her daggers, following through with the other to stab at his face, but he managed to move away before the blow landed.

Hawke jumped backward, away from the wall and toward the center of the room, forcing her attacker to come forward. And come forward he did in a flurry of blows that she just barely managed to block, switching between attempts to slash or stab at her and tight fisted punches which rained down on her arms, snaking sharp pain deep into her bones wherever they landed. He finished with a stomp to her bare foot with his bootheel and when she involuntarily reacted to the pain, he returned the blow to the temple, knocking her sideways, stumbling against the far wall of the room, limping heavily now, the bones in her foot surely broken. He advanced on her and got a hand around her throat, slamming her back into the wall and squeezing for a moment, a snarl on his face. Her instinct was to struggle forward against his grip but instead she forced herself to go limp, become dead weight, which he couldn't support with just the hand at her throat. His grip loosened and she pushed off with her good leg, both daggers aimed at the center of his chest, but he spun away before they connected, freeing her.

Instead of staying there, she continued to dodge, roll, feint, and otherwise keep him occupied while her mind worked through how to deal with this. As she skirted past the wash basin, she wildly flung the pitcher at him. Another pass near her armor stand had her lobbing a vambrace toward his head – anything she could grab and heft was thrown at him to buy herself time as she continued to weave out of his grasp and stay out of range of his sword. The throbbing pain in her head and foot were quickly exhausting her and outlasting him would soon stop being an option.

Without the weight of her armor she would not be able to use brute force – she'd rushed him once, taking him unaware, but she was sure it wouldn't work a second time. He fought with far more finesse than she was typically capable of, and he did not crumple under pain. He was, however, losing a lot of blood from that wound to his thigh – Hawke could hear it squelching in his boot with every step he took. Making her way back around to her armor and weapons, Hawke grabbed one of her gauntlets and threw it at him, the bulk of it passed him by, but the sharpened talons opened up a scratch along his cheek and bought her enough time to pull out and throw a dagger aimed at his chest. It sunk home, but not deeply enough.

He grunted in pain and pulled it loose, immediately flinging it right back at her, his aim true and strong, but she'd already been moving to the side, crouching and rolling. Foolishly she again sprang forth from her crouched position and dove right at him, startling him back some, but he kept his feet. He was closer to the wall along the door than he'd estimated, however and he slammed himself against the wall, letting out a grunt. Continuing to advance on him, her daggers sunk deep into the gaps of his armor on either side. His sword dropped from his hand as he howled in pain, but he was aware enough to draw his dagger across her chest. He'd probably been aiming for her throat but actually only managed to slash at her below her collar bones. Using the daggers in his sides as handles, Hawke pulled him away from the wall and drove him backward again toward the window, pushing as hard as she could to slam his head through the glass, causing him to drop his remaining weapon. One dagger came free from his side so she dropped it and punched him in the face, twice in quick succession, and then jabbed him hard in the throat.

She heard someone calling for her in the outer room and from the sudden look of surprise on the man's face, he heard it too. He struggled against her, but he'd lost too much blood. He was as weak as a baby and Hawke used that to her advantage. Using her hand on his throat and another behind his knee, she continued to push him against and then through the window, the glass scraping gouges into his back the whole way until he over balanced and simply fell, screaming the whole way before landing in a cracking thud on the hard cobbles of the courtyard below.

Someone was struggling at the door to her room – she always kept it locked and apparently this man had relocked it upon entering – but she leaned through the broken glass to look at the body below. In the courtyard were several guards fighting men dressed in similar armor. But there – near the gate, just barely out of the shadows was another figure. The hood was pulled up but from the shape of the shoulders and their height it was a man. And as she looked, she realized that they were looking right at her, as if they'd been looking at her for several moments at least. They could have been one of those attacking, maybe someone in charge – but it would be odd for them to simply allow their men to die at the hands of palace guards if that were the case. She heard the door open behind her and Fenris calling out, the lamp he was carrying casting light across the room. She did not turn immediately and was rewarded for her unwavering attention with a slow nod from the hooded figure who promptly stepped back and disappeared into the shadows just as Fenris's hand came down on her shoulder and turned her around.

…..

Ser Aaron found Donal and Alistair just as they were returning from the courtyard for a report. The men who had attacked were a force of only 5 but they managed to kill just as many of the palace guards and injure 5 more. They'd all been wearing light leather armor in dark colors and two were carrying what Alistair had come to recognize as Crow daggers. These were hired men, so why they'd spent their time in the courtyard fighting whatever guards spilled out of the gates made no sense - At least, until Alistair saw Ser Aaron, breathless and pale, with a large welt on the side of his face. Before he could speak, Alistair cut him off.

"Where is she?"

"In her rooms, your majesty. Fenris sent me to find a healer."

Alistair took off at a run, growling out "With me" to Donal and Ser Aaron. Donal paused only long enough to grab a courier to instruct him on where to find Wynne, Ser Aaron babbling apologies and explanations about something that made the guards sleep and the man he'd startled in the hall as he made his way to relieve Hawke's door guards. Alistair really didn't hear any of it.

Alistair burst into the sitting room to find Hawke there with Fenris. She was on the floor beside the fire, sitting up with her shift pulled down under her arms and her arms crossed over her chest holding up the now completely blood-soaked fabric while Fenris worked on her back with a poultice or a cloth. The amount of blood was startling and her jaw was clenched against the pain caused by whatever it was Fenris was doing. All that truly registered for Alistair was that she was injured but alive and that she looked up at him when he came in – clear eyed, awake. He went to her immediately and sank down onto his knees at her side. "Are you alright?"

Hawke nodded "I'm okay." She croaked when she talked and Alistair saw the clean deep red imprint of a hand across the front of her throat. "It looks worse than it is. The cuts aren't deep, I didn't lose much blood. They might have been poisoned – Zevran is checking."

As if on cue, Zevran emerged from Hawke's bedroom, carrying both a sword and a dagger that had been bloodied. "He was too assured of his success, no poison on the blades. They thought you were an easy mark."

Alistair was suddenly furious "And where were you?"

"I was on the other side of town. The fact that I got here at all before they were all gone is quite the feat, I assure you."

Alistair was about to start a pointless argument because he felt rather pointless himself at the moment, but Hawke's hand on his pulled him out of it. "How many were lost?"

"Marian, don't worry about that right now."

Wynne was ushered into the room, wearing a sleeping cap and an ornate robe over her nightclothes.

"Please, how many were lost?" She squeezed his hand and he saw that it was sticky with blood. This wasn't the time to count the dead, but he couldn't bring himself to argue with her right now.

"Five. There is another who may not make it through the night." Alistair looked at Wynne, realizing that this was the first time he'd seen her since he'd been back in Denerim and that he still had not spoken to her about what had happened with Hawke. "Wynne is going to have her work cut out for her tonight."

Wynne came over toward Hawke and Fenris stood between them, glowering down at the mage until Hawke reached up a hand and tugged on Fenris's sleeve. He continued to scowl, but moved to the side. Wynne lifted her head and squared her shoulders, the haughty attitude of someone who refused to rise to the bait. "Will someone please help her to a chair or ottoman so I can see the wounds clearly?"

Alistair helped pull Hawke to her feet along with Fenris and noted for the first time the bruises along her arms, the bruise that ran along her forehead and met with one along her temple. He thought the slashes across her skin were bad enough but she'd probably also sustained some injury to her skull. Once she was settled and Wynne began to examine the extent of the damage, Alistair went to her bedroom where lamps had been lit in abundance to illuminate every corner of the room. Zevran stood in the center of it all, thoughtfully examining it as if it were a painting. There were blood splatters everywhere, some nearly puddles, armor and weapons in disarray, shattered pottery and bowls, a spray of blood along the wall near the bed that also stained the sheets. Smears of blood across the walls where one or the other of them held. But the worst of it was the window. Pieces of skin and armor, chunks of flesh clung to the remnants of the glass there, jutting up out of the long smear of blood that had been painted along the bottom of the window frame.

"I would not have thought to use a window as a weapon. But it was effective."

"I hadn't realized that the destroyed body down there at been from here. We thought one of the guards had just gone into some sort of berserker rage." Feeling sick surveying the aftermath of what could have been Hawke's death, Alistair picked up the gauntlet from the floor stared down at it. All spikes and hard edges and custom built for her slight hands. She was attacked in the one place she should feel safe and he'd been unable to intervene or stop it. It made him angry because of just how useless it made him feel. "These were crows. I recognized the daggers."

Zevran nodded "Yes, and they used a distraction in the courtyard to get in here to her. I will not ask you if she has enemies – that would be foolish. But the sort of enemies who would simply want her dead as opposed to wanting her alive and useful? Now that is something new. Even when the chantry has been known to hire assassins, it has not been done this way. This is… sloppy."

Alistair heard Eamon's voice in the other room talking with Wynne as Zevran continued. "Either someone threw this together in a very hasty fashion – or the Crows were given bad information. There is no reason why a single attacker would have come for her in this way unless they'd been lead to believe that she would be simple to subdue." Zevran lifted the cloth where it had fallen onto the bed. "And they obviously thought they could simply knock her out and take her somewhere else to do the actual killing – which is something they would only do by request."

"Maybe kidnapping had been the plan and killing her was the fall back?"

"Perhaps," Zevran shrugged "but I would not assume so. It is unlikely that they would resort to slashing her to ribbons if they had only intended to take her."

"So what do we do?" Alistair looked around the room, feeling completely useless.

"We sleep. We find out who ordered it. We convince the cell that their services are no longer needed. The difficulty truly is that, once a contract is made – it is made. Another cell will have the opportunity to pick it up if they so choose."

Sighing, Alistair clapped his hand on Zevran's shoulder "I thought we were done with this "convincing killers not to kill" business years ago."

"Ah, but at least we have changed the focus, yes?" Zevran grinned at him. He wondered if this was just as odd for Zevran as it was for him or if there was some sense of fun or adventure in it.

They both made their way back out to the sitting room to see Hawke being lead into Fenris's room, a bundle of clothing under his arm, and Wynne attending to the lump on Ser Aaron's head. Eamon stood awkwardly in the center of the room, clearly uncomfortable being there at all. "Ah, your majesty. I am glad to see that no one was seriously injured. Do you have any idea how this may have happened?"

"We have a few ideas, Eamon, but nothing solid just yet. I'd rather not speak about in the present company."

Eamon cast a look at Zevran and then at Wynne and nodded "Very well, I understand."

"_Oh if only you did, Eamon." _Alistair wanted to just say it – just have it all out. But that was not the plan he'd made with Anora and he would not break it now just to satisfy his directionless anger at this attack on Hawke. In three days they would gather the guard and escort Eamon along with his many spies and hangers on from the palace. Watching him leave would have to be enough.

Alistair stepped up to Wynne, leaving Eamon standing next to Zevran completely on purpose. Zevran had always made Eamon uncomfortable. What it was exactly – his elven heritage, his background as an assassin, his lascivious nature, his irreverence – was hard to say. It could be all of those things or none of them. "How is she?"

Wynne turned to look at him as she patted Ser Aaron on the shoulder. "She is fine, Alistair. She lost more blood than she let on, so she will be weak for a little while, but it's nothing that rest and a full meal or two won't put to rights. A few broken bones, some deep bruises, she may have a headache for the next few days, but all in all she came out of it quite well considering the circumstances."

"I need to talk to you about some things, Wynne. Not now, of course, but soon." Alistair gave her a look that made it clear that he was not asking her – he was telling her. "For now, do you think that you could ensure that the guards who are injured are being taken care of? You needn't exhaust yourself, but even if you could call an apprentice it would be appreciated."

"Of course, Alistair. I will assist the physician who is with them in any way that I can." Wynne bobbed her head at him and swept out of the room. She had definitely been uncomfortable and in normal circumstances Alistair might have spared her a kind word or tried to comfort her but these were not normal circumstances at all. Turning back to the rest of the room, Alistair realized that there were still far too many guards in attendance as well as other people that he was sure Hawke would not want to see when she re-emerged.

"Donal, I think your men can leave now. Just the usual number on the door tonight. I don't expect there will be a repeat attempt so soon."

Donal inclined his head and gestured for his guards to leave. Ser Aaron lingered behind, clearly wanting to say something. "Yes, Ser Aaron? What is it?"

He bowed low and remained half bent over "Your majesty, I apologize for allowing this to happen. It will never happen again."

Zevran broke in before Alistair could respond "You did nothing wrong, Ser Aaron. This sort of attack is meant to be something you cannot plan against."

The guard nodded but the troubled look on his face remained. "While we could not have planned against it, I am sure that we could have handled it better. I will speak with the Guard-Captain about tactics against this sort of thing."

"Let us hope they won't be needed." Alistair clapped the guard on the shoulder and they looked at each other a moment before Ser Aaron nodded and left the room, Donal following him out. Turning to the last remaining interloper, Alistair steeled himself. "Eamon – I don't think there is anything more to do here for you either."

"Alistair, as your chancellor, this attack is more than a little concerning. For the assassins to have gotten so far into the castle undetected – well I have to think they were working with someone inside the palace. This is exactly the thing I warned you of, the bounty on her head is far more of a draw than any loyalty they might feel toward you as their king, and they may try again."

Zevran again broke in before Alistair could respond, for which he was grateful. He was sure his nerves were so frayed that he would be incapable of saying anything that wasn't gibberish or insults. All he really wanted was to see Hawke walk back out of Fenris's room and have some time alone with her.

"Your Grace, these men will not try again. And if they were working with someone inside the palace for the actual contract, it would have to be someone of means – they do not work cheaply. If it was information they needed, they could have gotten that from any number of sources. As you no doubt know, the palace is full of security holes and ways that someone may slip in undetected. I've done it myself on numerous occasions. Your best strategy is to go on as if this did not happen while correcting those security issues quietly."

Eamon bristled, surely just as much by being addressed directly by Zevran as by what he had to say. "So we just wait to see if this will happen again, putting his Majesty at risk for being caught in the crossfire? I think that's a ridiculous assumption to make."

"This will not happen again." There was an undercurrent to Zevran's voice that even made Alistair look at him. It wasn't a hopeful statement – it was fact as it fell from his lips. Fact that he would ensure. Watching the two of them, something passed over Eamon's face, there and gone like a shadow he wasn't even sure he'd seen.

Before the bluster on Eamon's part could continue, Alistair sank into a chair "It's been a long night, Eamon. We will discuss this tomorrow. Everything is secure for now." He was obviously unhappy with this dismissal, but Eamon bowed and left the room. Zevran threw himself into the chair opposite Alistair and smirked at him. "He's right, Zevran. It was someone in the palace."

"Indeed, he is, Alistair. And I think we both know the only person in the palace who would have something to gain by her death."

Alistair had been thinking it already, but to have it said so blatantly still vaguely shocked him. "Do you really think that?"

Zevran shrugged one shoulder and threw a leg over the chair of the arm "I have no way to prove it. But it makes sense."

They sat in silence for a while while Alistair thought that through. Would Eamon really go so far? Was he that threatened by Hawke? Calling in the Chantry – yes, that was clearly something he would do. But hiring assassins? He'd known the man to be ruthless to a fault, but it seemed a bit obvious and desperate to have him go to such a length. Perhaps that was part of it – that it would seem ridiculous for him to do that and therefore no one would assume it of him. Sometimes it troubled Alistair deeply to think of Eamon in this way. He'd never been a father to him, but he'd been… something. The older he got the more he realized that Eamon's influence on his life had been something of a necessary evil and not something he would wish on someone else. He'd been a child who needed to feel loved and wanted and the scraps of caring Eamon was willing to give him had seemed so much more important and meaningful. In hindsight all he could see was a man who had been cultivating his power for a very long time.

When the door to Fenris's room opened, Alistair was on his feet immediately but was forestalled by Fenris coming out first. He looked around for a moment and then opened the door for Hawke. "Just making sure they'd all gone."

Hawke stepped out, free of blood, her hair damp along her brow, and dressed in leggings and a loose tunic. Alistair pulled her to him and buried his face in her hair as his arms went around her shoulders and she held him by two fistfuls of shirt at his lower back. Hawke mumbled something into his shirt and he pulled back a bit "Didn't catch that."

She looked up at him with a sleepy grin "I was saying I couldn't breath. It would hardly make sense to avoid being killed in my bed just to be smothered." She went up on her toes and kissed him, wrapping her arms around his neck and pulling him down. It was a sudden and intense sort of kiss and for a moment he didn't care that Zevran and Fenris were still in the room. He was far too relieved and frayed. The full reality of the fact that she'd been attacked and could have died right there in what was his own home was terrifying and he poured that out into the kiss, matching every ounce of her fervency.

"Well, I would just sit here and watch but for a change I am not interested." Zevran's sarcastic voice broke through whatever fear-induced reverie they'd been in and they pulled away from each other, but not far away. Alistair maneuvered Hawke over to the small couch and sat with her, leaving his arm around her waist, his hand curled possessively around her hip.

"I am glad to see that you are well, my champion. Not many successfully survive an attack by the Crows." Zevran's tone was light, but he looked at her in a way that made it clear that he meant every word.

"So they were hired? For me? Was anyone else attacked?"

"Just you, my dear. Though it seems they were somewhat… unprepared for the fight you gave them."

Hawke seemed to consider that for a moment. "There was a man in the courtyard. I saw him when I pushed the other one out of the window."

"There was a group of at five attackers in the courtyard, Marian." Alistair squeezed her side "They were a distraction for the one who made his way up here."

"No, not the other Crows. There was another person. He was by the gate with a hood – I couldn't see his face. But he looked right at me and nodded. He knew I was looking at him."

Zevran leaned forward, clearly intrigued. "And you are sure he was not with the Crows?"

"If he was, he wasn't fighting with them. He was only just visible. If he'd been a few inches back I wouldn't have seen him at all. And the way he disappeared after he nodded at me – I think it must have been on purpose. Like he was waiting for me."

Alistair looked at Zevran to see that Zevran was looking back at him. They'd had the same thought. It could have been the one they'd been looking for.

"What was that?"

"Hmm?" Alistair looked back at Hawke to see her eyes shifting between him and Zevran.

"That. That look. Do you two know something about that man?"

When Alistair didn't immediately respond, Hawke looked instead to Zevran. Fenris, who had been pacing around Hawke's bedroom came back and perched on the arm of the couch beside Hawke. Zevran was obviously at a rare loss for words because he just started at the three of them. Fenris spoke up "If you know something about this, you need to tell us. It's not fair to Hawke to keep her in the dark about this – it's her life being played with."

Zevran shot Alistair a questioning look and Alistair nodded. Sighing, Zevran rose and began to pace "Very well, I will tell you. Though it doesn't necessarily mean anything at all."

Zevran began to lay out everything – from the deaths in the tunnels to the mercenaries found slaughtered throughout the city. What they'd found on them and, importantly, what they had not found – any clues as to who this person doing the killings may be. He detailed the sort of injuries on the bodies, the sorts of deaths they were subjected to, and the obvious skill with which the attacker worked. By the time he'd finished, Hawke had gone abnormally still, eyes locked on the floor. It was as if all her emotions had been funneled to Fenris, who was clenching his jaw and rolling his eyes.

"So the two of you and who knows how many guards simply decided that Hawke didn't need to know about any of this?" Instead of asking Zevran, he asked Alistair.

"Do not blame Alistair, this was very much a decision I pushed for. Until I knew more there was no reason to assume that this was someone who might become more involved. Then the more I learned the more important it seemed paramount to simply learn who this man is."

"I understand, Zevran." Hawke's voice was quiet. Alistair could tell she was very tired. "But that's information that could have kept us alive – both Fenris and I needed to know that. If we'd known there were ongoing attempts we would have prepared differently. They could have attacked Fenris to get to me, they could have attacked or killed any of you. Five guards are dead because we didn't plan better."

She stood suddenly and looked at them all in turn "It's… there's nothing to do about it now." She looked meaningfully at Alistair "but I'll ask both of you this only once – please do not keep things from me. Not things like this. I am not fragile and I've dealt with worse. It feels completely ridiculous being coddled and it only puts me - all of us really – in danger." Hawke crossed her arms over her chest and to Alistair she looked the very definition of fragile - small and care-worn. He'd known she had a great deal on her mind that she did not express but the weight of it all rarely showed outside of moments like this. It was Fenris who moved toward her then, before Alistair could. He put a hand on her shoulder and while her expression did not change, she seemed to uncoil some, stand a little straighter, as if he'd given her some jolt of energy with that touch. Sometimes Alistair still did not understand the relationship between them, but he felt guilty knowing that half her concern about not knowing had been for Fenris and not for herself. She may eventually forgive anyone else for harm coming to him, but she'd never forgive herself.

They continued to talk for quite a while. Zevran went over every detail of what he'd told her again, Hawke asking questions about gang names and affiliations and locations around the city – the pattern to all the deaths. She'd tracked killers before and seemed to ask questions that made Zevran think of things he hadn't before. Her lack of familiarity with Denerim was a detriment in some ways, but in others it meant that she had no preconceptions about where they would or would not find their next step. Fenris too seemed to work in tandem with where Hawke's mind went, bringing up points that she left off, ferretting out details that she hadn't noticed. Zevran shot Alistair looks more than a few times that were full of apology. They both realized that they'd underestimated her – they had needed this kind of thinking weeks ago and they'd both assumed that she would be of no help. What had started as a study turned triage room had become a war room, with maps laid out along the floor and copious notes and theories being formed as the sun began to turn the sky pale.

"You need to rest, my champion. Both of you do." Zevran stretched his legs out in front of him and leaned his head back against the seat of the couch. "If one of you falls over the other will topple with them." He gestured to Hawke and Fenris who, over the course of the last hour had begun listing toward each other until they were only being held up by the shoulder of the other. Alistair was the only one of them still in a chair, simply watching the three of them work all this out and interjecting only when he was sure of a fact or something they might not have mentioned. Hawke nodded dumbly.

"Actually, Zevran, can I have your help? It looks like I'll be sharing a room with Fenris tonight and I could use your assistance."

Despite having sat in one spot for hours, Zevran rose with admirable grace and then helped Hawke to her feet. "Lead the way, my dear."

Hawke dashed off into her room for a pack of something and then the two of them went into Fenris's room, leaving the sullen elf and Alistair alone for the first time in weeks.

"Do you still think it was a mistake coming here?" Alistair couldn't help the question, it leapt out without him even thinking about it.

Fenris leveled that calculating stare at him and he almost regretted asking. He wasn't sure he would like the answer. At length, the elf rumbled out "No."

After waiting a moment to see if anything else was forthcoming, Alistair just nodded, then, very quietly, almost at a whisper that he knew only Fenris would hear, he added "I want to marry her. I was going to ask her this morning but, well, obviously that isn't going to work. I… I would like your blessing."

"It's not my blessing you need."

"I know that – I do. But you're like family to her and it's important to me that you approve. And if I don't have your approval, it's important that I earn it."

"Start with not lying to her or keeping secrets from her."

Alistair was disappointed that he didn't have Fenris's trust but he could hardly blame him. He nodded "Understood."

They sat in silence until Zevran re-emerged from Fenris's room. "I have no idea where she learned to make a trap like that, but if anyone attempts to open the window, they won't walk away from it unscarred. Come, Alistair, she is nearly asleep on her feet, she needs to rest."

Zevran waited by the door as Alistair went to say goodnight to Hawke. He found her sitting on the edge of the bed, yawning widely. He sank down next to her and took her hand. "I'm sorry we didn't tell you about all of this before, Marian. I hope you understand."

"I do, Alistair. I understand completely – but you were wrong."

"I see that now. It won't happen again. You'll know everything that I know. I'm just… relieved. Very relieved that you're okay."

"Wynne is a talented healer."

Alistair stiffened at the mention of Wynne. He would still need to talk to her and he did not look forward to it. "Yes, she is. She didn't… say anything, did she?"

"No, it was all business. Though she did make some remark about the wounds not scarring but how she was sure that that didn't matter to me after she got a look at my back. I don't think she approves of me at all."

"She's just… set in her ways, I think. She has had some notion that I would end up with some sort of untouched princess of a woman."

Hawke nodded "Ah. Well then she was bound to be disappointed by me."

Alistair took her chin in his hand and turned her head to face him "No one with sense could be disappointed by you, Marian." He kissed her softly on the lips. "Get some rest. I'll ask the guards to station a few men in the study to cover both the main door and this door. I know Zevran said they wouldn't return but I'd rather be sure just in case."

Though he expected her to protest, she just nodded. The dark circles under her eyes seemed to stand out so starkly in the early morning light coming in through the tall windows. Kissing her on the forehead, he rose. "Get some sleep."

She nodded at him as he left and closed the door behind him. Zevran and Fenris were deep in conversation and he simply waved at them as he left the room, leaving instructions with the guards to move into the study once Zevran left. In his own room again, he fell to sleep almost immediately, completely exhausted. He had troubled dreams of battles where Hawke was in plate armor with a shield and sword like a knight, battling with a group of men against waves of attackers. He'd catch sight of her here and there while he battled against his own enemies, seeing her more exhausted and bloodied and weak with each sighting. He never saw her fall, but it seemed constantly possible, as if it were only a matter of time as they fought a war they could not win.

…

He moved through the common room of the inn like a ghost. No one looked up at him, no one would later recount him having come back or even having been there in the first place outside of the fact that he had a room and it was paid for. He was neither flashy not inconspicuous. He was neither polite nor rude. He made enough noise to be normal, ignorable, utterly forgettable.

Sitting on the bed in his room, he couldn't get the image of her out of his mind, standing at the window, looking right at him. She was breathing heavy, her hair plastered to her forehead, her cheeks pink, and the blood on her chest sticking her torn shift to her skin. She looked right at him as if he were standing with a torch in his hand, like she knew him and knew he was there. It drove a chill up his spine, though whether it was trepidation or excitement at having been seen he was unsure. He found in the last month he'd become unsure of many things and it was a new and terrible state for him. He'd convinced himself that this would be the end of it – the last thing and then he would go. But he knew he was wrong. He couldn't leave – especially not now. The Crows would try again and again while the contract was still alive and next time he would be unable to get inside enough to mislead them. It shouldn't have mattered in the first place. He should have been gone from here months ago when his goals had begun to change. But it did matter and he knew he would not leave.

He tried to tap into the anger again, the wounded pride that had driven him to Denerim ahead of her in the first place. But it was so distant now – so inconsequential. He'd switch inns tomorrow. He'd sleep, knowing she was alive and probably fully healed. Watching the lights play at the windows and tracking the silhouettes he knew she'd slept in the tattooed elf's room that night. It was bold – not even bothering to change suites. Any other person would have fled to a safer part of the palace – but she merely sought out a room that wasn't covered in blood. He'd seen her at the window, obviously setting a trap of some kind. Zevran Arainai stood next to her. She never looked up but the former Crow did – his eyes never stopped scanning the courtyard below.

For the moment, she would be as safe as she ever seemed to be. It had never occurred to him that his involvement had just been one more thing in a long string of disasters, dangerous situations, and death that seemed to dog her. But for now, with that man-child of a king and his guards constantly surrounding her, she would have a moment to breathe. When that seeker from the Chantry arrived that might change. From what he understood, a great many things might change. And perhaps that's why he was staying after all.

He would love to see the room – to see the sheets she'd laid in, to track the fight across the stone floors by the sprays of blood. Reaching into the pack at his side, he pulled out the small bundle there and almost reverently folded back the cloth. The dagger was still bloodied from where it had been embedded in the Crow's side. He'd clean it in the morning. For now, he simply held it, tested its weight, trying to feel how her hand, smaller and slighter than his, had gripped it, how it had turned in her hand as she slashed and stabbed. He wanted the metal to still be warm from her skin but of course it wasn't. A stolen dagger may be as close as he would ever get to her again and he knew that it would never be enough.


	45. Chapter 45

Hawke did not wake up in time for breakfast that day or the next. She would not have gotten up in time for lunch on the second day either had Fenris not forcibly ejected her from his bed. A gruff "Out" was all that accompanied the covers being ripped off her and a foot being planted on her backside. She managed to pinch his side before she fell over the edge, earning a pillow flung full force at her head. Figuring that further escalation would only end in bloodshed, she staggered out of the room, nodding to the two guards who had taken up positions in the common room and into her own room. The morning after the attack a whole army of maids and workmen had been in to fix the window, scrub the stone, replace that which was broken and procure a new mattress – the old one having been deemed beyond cleaning. She should have slept in her own room again last night. It had already been put back together as if nothing had ever happened – only the lingering bite of the lye soap the maids had used to scrub away the blood remained.

Thankfully, Fenris knew enough to simply assume she'd be sharing his bed with him again, leaving his door open for her when he retired. Once she'd read well into the night and was unable to even pretend to focus on the book in her hands any longer she gave in and quietly slipped under the covers beside him as he rolled to his side and allowed her to press her back to his. If she had her way she wouldn't have needed to sleep at all. She hated the fear that bubbled through her at the thought of being set upon, helpless and unarmored.

She used the basin in her room to wash up and put on a pair of leggings and one of the few plain tunics she'd brought with her, determined that today she'd leave the room, find Alistair, force the fear out of herself.

She greeted Ser Aaron in the hall in his usual place, the bruise on his temple an interesting match to the one she carried.

"Do you have any idea where his majesty is at this time of day, Brendan?" She started off down the hall and Ser Aaron fell into step behind her.

"I think you'll just have to follow the sound of squealing children, my lady."

Furrowing her brow, Hawke paused. "I assume that there is a good reason for that, Brendan, and the King hasn't taken to torturing children in his free time."

"No, my lady, I don't believe it involves torture. Not of the children anyway." Hawke thought Brendan looked particularly harassed. It occurred to her that he was probably at that age where having children around just reminded him that he was probably expected at some point to have some of his own. He'd become increasingly comfortable around her since she'd been in the palace. Though the formality never waned, he was far freer with his thoughts and she'd been pleased to discover that he had an incredibly dry, sarcastic sense of humor.

True to Brendan's prediction, Hawke heard high pitched squeals and peals of laughter from down the hall. It was the dining hall that Alistair favored when he actually had someone to dine with. Brendan stopped at the door and Hawke paused before continuing through it. Laying a hand on his arm she leaned up and kissed him on the cheek. He nearly dashed backward away from her for a moment and looked utterly shocked. "Thank you for guarding me for all this time, Brendan. I know I'm not especially easy to deal with most of the time. I'm so sorry that some of your fellow guards were killed. I… if you could… could you give me the names of their families?"

Ser Aaron looked vaguely stunned. "Of course, my lady, it would be my pleasure." Hawke nodded but he stopped her short "and please, my lady – never feel that you have to thank me. It's a duty I chose for myself and… it's been an honor."

Hawke smiled up at him and patted his arm in acknowledgement before turning and continuing into the room.

She was confronted with the sight of Alistair striding around the room with a red-faced toddler clinging to his leg as he made a show of looking behind chairs and under the table and around vases. When he noticed her, he made his way over to her. There was barely a hitch in his step despite the added weight. "Ah, Hawke. I wonder if you could help me. I'm looking for Colm. He's about 2 feet high, blonde, and he has a habit of completely disappearing."

The boy attached to his leg giggled and screamed out "I'm right here!" Alistair dramatically turned his head left and right and then put his hands on his hips, shaking his head. "No, it's no good. I swear I can hear him, but I can't find him anywhere. I'll keep looking." The boy squealed out another laugh as Alistair stalked off again. Donal and a very petite woman who was completely dwarfed by him stood off in a corner watching with slight quirks of amusement on their faces. Hawke stayed wide of the show and went to greet him.

"Hello, Donal. I assume Alistair's accessory is your son?"

"Hello, lady Marian. Yes, that is Colm. And this," he gestured to the woman, "is my wife, Maureen, and our newest addition Seona."

Maureen beamed a smile at Hawke. She was very pretty with the sort of milky skin and rosy complexion that Hawke's own mother would have coveted. Her dark hair was pulled back into a loose braid that Seona was even now attempted to chew on. Hawke couldn't help but think of tapestries of beautiful farm girls courted by valiant knights when looking at her. "I've heard much about you, lady Marian – I'm pleased to finally meet you."

"Please, Maureen – I can't convince any of the knights of this, but I assure you – it's just Marian or Hawke."

Maureen nodded "As you wish, Marian. I hear that there was quite a bit of excitement here the night before last, but you're looking quite well, thankfully."

"I'm doing well enough all things considered, just a bit tired. And what brings you here today?"

"His majesty insisted, actually. Donal was against it, but it seems his highness had some sort of plans for the day that involved Colm."

Donal grumbled out "He wants to take him riding. Going to give him dreams of owning horses."

Hawke grinned at that. "He probably just wants to be like his dad."

Donal scoffed and then fell silent. He looked decidedly uncomfortable watching Alistair pick up Colm and fling him into the air, catching him but pretending to let him drop. Colm screamed and shrieked and then promptly yelled "Again!" and Alistair complied. He was probably getting more out of the roughhousing than Colm was. Hawke on the other hand only had eyes for the baby. She was perfectly pink, eyes huge and dark brown with a little curl of dark hair peeking out under the edge of her cap. Maureen seemed to notice. "Would you like to hold her?"

"Oh… I … yes, I would actually." The last time Hawke had held a baby she'd been little more than one herself. Bethanny and Carver were two years younger than her and while she'd cared for them to help her mother it seemed so long again that it had to have been something she'd forgotten how to do. This suddenly seemed like a very bad idea. You kill things, you don't keep them safe. Your hands are calloused, your fingernails broken, and you're more apt to cuss til you're blue in the face than to coo at a baby. "I… uh." Hawke huffed out a sigh. "How do I do that exactly?"

Maureen beamed at her. "Like holding a bouquet of flowers."

Hawke laughed at that. "I'm afraid that point of reference means little to me, Maureen. How about I just copy you?" Maureen chuckled at that and helped Hawke settle the baby into her arms and against her chest. Seona stared up at her, extremely still for a moment as if she was deciding just how she would react. Hawke, petrified, stared back and, like a fool kept telling herself that babies could sense fear like Mabari or wolves. It was a ridiculous thought but it did the trick and she made herself relax. Running a finger down Seona's plump, rosy cheek, she smiled down at the baby, who kicked, gurgled, and shoved her fist back into her mouth, chewing thoughtfully as her eyes continued to take in everything.

"There now – see? Nothing to it."

Hawke had nearly forgotten Maureen was there, she was so enthralled with the way Seona was looking up at her. "And now I know how to carry a bouquet of flowers."

Maureen chuckled at that and steered Hawke toward a chair at the table, which had lunch laid out. Colm had been reclaimed by his father and Alistair came around the table, planting a kiss on Hawke's temple as he leaned over her shoulder and cooed ridiculously at Seona. He moved on and took a seat next to her and, without asking, plucked the baby from her arms, lifting her up and bringing her back down, made a wide surprised face at her, causing Seona to laugh loudly.

Hawke felt vaguely stunned. It had never occurred to her that Alistair would be so child obsessed but there he was, completely ignoring everything in the room that wasn't under the age of 5. Seeing him coo and babble and make faces without a hint of self-consciousness was so endearing that it was almost painful to watch. Hawke couldn't help the huge smile plastered across her face as she watched him. She knew that family was very important to him, but it could have been important in that nebulous, removed sort of way that people think of things in their life like wanting to travel or be a better Andrastian. But seeing it right there in front of her was startling. He was desperate for children. The fact that he hadn't actually just grabbed the first willing woman he could stand and get her pregnant was even more amazing to her now. His resolve to actually be in love with his future wife could have come across as a lot of hot air – romantic and dreamy sounding and tailor made to make many women fall in love with him. But she'd always believed him.

As Maureen took the baby back from Alistair, admonishing him to eat as Maureen and Donal both placed plates laden with food in front of them, Hawke reached out for his hand. He turned to look at her then as if it was the first time he'd seen her that day. A wide smile broke across his face, and he brought her hand up to kiss her wrist. It was all just so sweet that she was sure she was going to cry. Alistair seemed to notice and his smile was taking on a twinge of worry as he started to speak, only to be forestalled by Colm's squeaky, overly loud voice at Hawke's other side. "Are you gonna ride horses too?"

Hawke turned toward Colm. He was at that age that children had where they always seemed slightly grubby, like they were able to find dirt that no one else could. His wavy blonde hair fell into his big blue eyes and Hawke was struck by just how much like Donal he looked. It seemed impossible that Donal had ever been so small. "No, I don't think I will be."

"What?" Alistair protested, "I was counting on you coming as well. Do you have big plans today that I didn't know about? I thought you could do with some air."

"I've never ridden a horse, Alistair. Outside of a few carthorses and those you had with you in Kirkwall I've never even been near horses."

Colm's clutched the front of her shirt and unceremoniously dragged himself into her lap, digging his knees and elbows into every sensitive spot he could find along the way. Once he was sufficiently settled, he looked at her solemnly. "I don't know how either. But don't be scared. Aster can teach you too."

"Colm!" Donal barked. "You will address him as "his highness", young man."

"Not when we're alone, Donal. You know that." Looking at Colm, Alistair continued, "When we're around people who aren't your family you should use my title. But if it's just your family, you can call me "Alistair". Does that make sense?"

Colm seemed to think about it "Why do you have two names?"

"Lots of people have two names. Hawke has two names – she is Hawke or Marian. Your father has two names as well – sometimes he's Donal, sometimes he's Ser Calbrooke." Hawke had plucked up a piece of bread from around Colm and leaned back, nibbling on it.

Colm squirmed around until he was straddling Hawke's lap facing her. "You have two names?"

"I do."

"I'm just Colm."

"Do you want a second name as well?"

"No, that would be confusing."

"I agree, it can definitely be confusing."

"Where are you from?" Colm began twisting the ties at the front of her tunic together and then untwisting them over and over, eyes completely intent on what his hands were doing.

"I'm from here – from Ferelden."

"But where?"

"From a little bit of everywhere. I was born near Highever, but I grew up all over Ferelden."

"Did you have a house?" Colm had moved on to playing with the ends of her hair.

"We had a lot of houses."

"I've only had one. Ma says it's the only one I'll ever need."

"One house is good as well, Colm."

"Where is your ma and your pa?"

Hawke paused at that. She wasn't sure how much he knew about death at his age and she didn't want to cause a lot of questions for his parents. She caught Maureen's eye, and Maureen nodded. "Colm, I think you should eat now." Alistair gently patted the boy's head, attempting to intervene and forestall Hawke from having to answer.

"No, it's okay." Looking back at Colm, Hawke broke off a piece of bread for him and handed it to him. "My parents are both gone. My father died when I was 17. My mother died almost two years ago."

Colm chewed his bread and looked at her. "You can share my ma and pa."

Hawke laughed at that "I don't know if they'd appreciate that. I keep hours like a cat and am terrible at picking up my things."

Colm nodded "I am too." He leaned forward and whispered in a voice that could clearly be heard by everyone in the room "but if you push it all under the bed you don't have to pick it all up."

Hawke returned his loud whisper, "I appreciate the hint. I'll have to use that." His stomach grumbled loudly and he giggled. Hawke poked him in the belly "I think that means you need to eat." She turned him around and they shared her plate. She caught Alistair looking at her out of the corner of her eye, expression unfathomable. Once Colm had had his fill he wiggled off her lap and took off running around the room again, talking to himself about whatever it was he was imagining. Alistair finally broke the silence and leaned toward her. "I had no idea you didn't know how to ride. I will teach you, you know. It's not that difficult. Even I can do it."

"Will you, 'Aster'?" Hawke smirked at him.

He chuckled "You can call me 'Aster' all you like as long as you're doing it from horseback. Unless you can't stand the idea of _me_ actually having something to teach _you_, that is." He was looking impish.

Hawke leaned toward him and whispered in his ear, voice dropped low and throaty, "I am sure there is plenty you can teach me, Alistair."

He cleared his throat as she leaned back, pleased with the blush she saw coloring his face. "Right, well then – come to the stables with me and I'll teach you and Colm how to saddle a horse."

….

Giggling, sweaty, and red faced, they made their way back into the palace.

"That was perhaps the worst example of a trot I have ever seen, Hawke. I think the horse was embarrassed for you."

Hawke laughed "Blame my teacher, Aster."

"Colm did far better than you did and he's only 4 years old. I thought you were going to fall off every time your mount so much as shook his head."

"I thought I was too. I'll be better next time."

"So you've already consented to another try?"

Hawke grinned at him "I suppose. If nothing else it will give Ser Aaron a change of scenery."

As they made their way down the hall toward Hawke's room, Alistair pulled her by the elbow into a random guest room, swiftly closing the door behind them and pushing her up against it. Before she could even formulate a thought his lips were on hers, his hands travelling from her hips up her sides and back down as he leaned into her, one knee firmly pressed between her thighs. All she could do was kiss back, threading her fingers into his still damp hair. After a time somewhere between a few minutes and forever, Alistair pulled back from her only to bury his face in her neck. "I love you, Marian."

"I love you too, Alistair."

Alistair pulled back and ran his finger along her jaw line, looking down into her eyes. "I haven't heard you say that since before we got to Denerim."

"It hasn't exactly been the most romantic of times." Hawke pushed her palms down his chest, enjoying this opportunity to touch him.

He kissed her "Has it ever been? I don't think either of us have a very good track record with ideal romantic moments."

"I don't know – this one is shaping up just fine." She went up on her toes and smothered his grin with her lips. It was several long minutes of kissing and murmuring and touching later before a heavy knock on the door that reverberated through Hawke's back interrupted them. Both of them went silent and stared at each other, waiting. When they both realized that their first instincts had been to pretend they weren't there, it was all they could do not to laugh. Shoulders shaking, biting their lips, they buried their heads into each other's shoulders when there was another knock.

"I can clearly hear your giggling, Hawke. You have a visitor who cannot wait." Fenris sounded about as annoyed as he always did.

"We've been caught."

"He's your friend, you can tell him to go away." Alistair punctuated this by sliding his hands down along her backside and squeezing.

"You're the king, you could make a decree or something."

"I heard all of that. Now come out here, Hawke."

Hawke huffed out a sigh. "So much for romance."

Hawke pushed away from the door, but Alistair stopped her. "We'll work this out. I promise you that."

Smiling slightly, Hawke shook her head "I'm not sure that you know this about me, Alistair, but I will let you in on it… some people have called me stubborn. I'm not going anywhere."

Alistair didn't admit it, but the fear of waking up and realizing she was gone had been hanging over him. Fenris and his impatience be damned, he pulled her to him again, with handfuls of her hair, kissing her. "You've made me a very happy man, Marian." It occurred to him that he should just ask her, just blurt it out and ask her to marry him. But he'd only just starting working on his engagement gift to her and he wanted to hand her something tangible along with his promises. It would have to wait.

"Alright, I'll let you go. For now. Go find out who this mysterious visitor is. Meet me for dinner?"

Hawke nodded and pulled his face down to hers, kissing both his cheeks and then his nose. "I'll be there." She shot him a grin as she left and Alistair maneuvered over to a chair as the door closed, falling into it with a sigh.

…..

Orana was nearly as flustered as the day Hawke met her when she came into the room, fluttering to and fro like a nervous bird with the guards Varric had hired standing impassively to the side with vaguely strained expressions. Hawke paid them and sent them off, glad to be rid of them as Orana fell to squeakily recounting her journey there in the oddest snippets of recollections. She was the only person she could imagine crossing the Waking Sea and circumnavigating a large portion of Ferelden and only have comments about the colors of shirts the sailors wore.

It took another full day for her to even begin to calm down, with her jumping at every tiny noise and bobbing in supplication to any and every person she passed by. Brendan asked no fewer than five times if Hawke was quite sure that the girl wouldn't need the attention of a physician. Alistair was quite pleased to see her, but she absolutely refused to join Hawke for dinner with the king and she felt like she couldn't leave Orana alone so Alistair had something sent to the sitting room.

Orana had been given a room directly across from Hawke's and it was decided that the best way to keep her there in the palace would be as Hawke's official lady in waiting. Hawke had attempted to convince Orana that she didn't need to serve her – that she could do anything she wanted and that they would keep tabs on her, that the people in the Alienage would take care of her. But Orana wouldn't hear it. And truthfully, that little bit of home being there in Denerim helped enormously. Fenris was always a comfort but Orana reminded her of her mother in the oddest and best ways.

The letter that Orana brought with her, tucked into the lockbox one of the guards had carried explained that she hadn't been doing so well in Kirkwall without Hawke and Fenris. She'd tried to take up employment in another house and while the constant harsh treatment was something she was accustomed to, it had made her regress somewhat. That loss of progress in convincing Orana that she was a free woman was evident in the way that Hawke had to keep reminding her that she didn't need to bow to her, that she didn't need to bow to anyone, really. Even Brendan seemed uncomfortable at the fact that Orana swept into a curtsey every time she saw him.

Unfortunately the timing of her arrival coincided with the removal of Eamon. At midday the day following her arrival, guards lead by Donal and a contingent of Denerim city guards scattered among them swept through the palace, waiting while servants and couriers and stewards gathered their things and then escorted them out of the palace to the other side of the gate. Hawke stayed in her room that day, sure that things would get ugly if she happened to see Eamon, who would surely find some way to implicate her in this sudden regime change. It turned out that she needn't have bothered. Alistair had gone to Eamon's estate personally in the early morning hours to deliver a decree stating that Eamon was being removed as Chancellor, his title of Regent was being recalled, and he was asked to temporarily vacate the city of Denerim and return to his estate in Redcliffe.

Anora had ensconced herself in Eamon's office by nightfall and Alistair regaled them both with the details of exactly how well Eamon had taken the news while Anora settled in to her new center of operations. He did not take it well.

"He said he should have drowned me as a baby."

Hawke couldn't help it; she let out a huge laugh at that. "What? And lose his chance to have any position at all with Maric or Cailan or you? He's been living his life on the backs of the Theirin bloodline – you seriously think he'd have even dared consider it?"

"It's not that he would consider it – it's that he said it."

Anora smirked at him from her chair "I'm sure you've thought worse."

"But I didn't _say it_. He went and blurted it out. Told me I was nothing without him and that my reign would fail without his assistance."

Hawke rolled her eyes and rose to refill Alistair and Anora's glasses of brandy. "Amazing he could get out of his estate at all, lugging around that ego."

"I don't know." Alistair shook his head. "I was never suffering under the delusion that he was a kind man. I just never expected him to be cruel. He screamed something about my "whore of a mother" as I was leaving. I always knew he knew more about that than he let on, but it was a desperate ploy – just trying to get me to come back and argue. To this day he thinks I'm ten years old."

Hawke realized Alistair was quickly heading into a very maudlin place. "Well, he's gone now. And hopefully you won't have to see him for quite a while - at least not until the next Landsmeet."

Alistair was staring off into space with a sullen expression. No answer or even acknowledgement that she'd said anything was forthcoming so she took a different tack. "We should spar tomorrow."

"Done."

…..…..

It was the third day in a row that Alistair and Hawke had sparred. They had only ever sparred once before then, in Fenris's great hall in Kirkwall and it had been an exhausting but careful fight between people who didn't know each other very well. After the first round on that first day in the palace training grounds, however, any sense of safety or sensible sparring was utterly abandoned and they really started fighting each other – it was almost vicious. Even Fenris remarked that it was strange watching the two of them try to tear each other to shreds when it was so obvious how they felt about each other.

When Alistair fought – truly fought and not just exercised or sparred or concentrated on form, he let go of something. In those moments it was possible to see who he could have been eventually had he not been made king. He was ferocious, brash, and intense. When he let go of all that…propriety, all that politeness, he was nearly a different person.

Fenris had long known that Hawke was impressive for entirely different reasons. They tended to fight in full armor and seeing her in her champion armor – the armor he hadn't regularly seen her wear since Kirkwall – was a welcome change. It reminded him of when he'd met her. She fought like a woman possessed, all elbows and fists and sharp slashes with the dulled knives she used. There was an exacting and precise anger to the way she fought, like a street brawler who happened to know exactly where to kick your knee to make it give out or where all your major organs were and how to hurt them. It was a dangerous and unpredictable combination and one that helped explain how it was she'd managed to escape that basement in Rivain or the attack in her own room less than a week before. When Alistair disarmed her, she simply kept fighting without her weapons. When she couldn't find an opening, she made one.

They were an oddly matched sparring pair. He never seemed to get tired and she never seemed to give up, even when she was clearly exhausted, drenched in sweat and huffing in shuddering breaths. Fenris knew her well enough to know that she didn't really care about winning, she cared about not losing. That may have been an academic difference that most people wouldn't understand – but he did understand it. And that's why he was still here. He was going to make sure that she didn't lose. Eamon's hatred of her was an issue he wasn't willing to forget. He'd been ousted from power but that just meant that it would go underground. He also knew that the Crows would try again. And then there was the Chantry to deal with. They were both of them accustomed to running and hiding and fighting. But she finally had something she wasn't willing to run away from and if she were going to stand and fight, he'd do it with her. They'd gone through too much together for him to do otherwise.

Fenris was walking the shorter set of battlements that ran along the first edges of the center keep of the castle, the first line of major defense between the curtain wall and the palace. While at first he'd simply been up there to watch Alistair and Hawke spar, he also found that, even at this reduced height, he was afforded a useful view of a patch of the city outside the walls as well as a greater sense of the overall layout of the castle. It was built in an odd combination of styles that he could only think was distinctly Ferelden.

There was no moat, as there would have been in Nevarra, though a small waterway did meet up with the palace along the back walls, leading to the main harbor a short distance away, to allow supplies to still make their way to the defenders in case of siege. While there was a succession of walls lined with battlements, with baileys or open courtyards between, they were squared off and roughhewn with vaguely rounded tower outposts at the corners as opposed to the concentric circles that made up most similar palaces and castles in Tevinter. Each tier of walls rose higher, connected together with short bridges that spanned over the courtyards, providing a way to navigate, but also a location from which to fire down upon any army that made its way through the previous protective wall.

Eventually the entire structure culminated in a tall central keep that towered above the city and could be seen from well outside the walls of Denerim. It was a palace built for war and built to withstand long ages of weather and change. He doubted much differed in the central makeup of the place since the stones were first mortared together. It amused him to think of Orlesians living here – how it must have chafed them to live in such a utilitarian place.

Several sets of guards made their own circuits of the battlements – sets of them at each tier of the structure could be seen moving along the paths if one were intent enough to wait and watch their circuits around the long walkways. Whenever he passed one of these guards, they'd invariably nod at him politely, noting his presence if nothing else, and because of this he'd become accustomed to which of them tended to patrol certain areas, mapping out from his own observations who did or did not belong in a certain location. He never expected to use the knowledge, of course, but it was habit that could not be broken.

Today, however, just after clearing one of the corner towers, the guard who nodded back at him was… wrong. It was entirely possible he was simply new given the rather large change in regime that came with the cleansing of Eamon's presence and influence, and that's why Fenris didn't recognize him but it was something more than that. There was just something slightly off. He was a little too keen, a little too stiff. The guards on duty during the day tended to slack off just a bit. He was not of bulky build, even in the plate armor, but he was tall, roughly as tall as Alistair. From this angle, now that the man had passed him, he couldn't see anything of his face at all. Fenris had nearly convinced himself he'd been imagining it when an arrow flew out of seemingly nowhere toward the guard he'd been watching and lodged itself into the miniscule gap between his breastplate and his helmet where he'd failed to wear a gusset.

The guards on the battlements were all at attention immediately, the practice yard was filled with shouts of men rushing toward Hawke and Alistair, hustling them into the Palace, against much protesting from both of them. Hawke was pushing away from the guards and scanning the towers along the outer wall to determine where the arrow had come from and Alistair was following, standing ahead of her with his shield raised. The guards gave up on pulling them into the palace and simply surrounded them. Fenris sprinted toward the man who had been shot, reaching him and pulling off his helmet. He was definitely not familiar. Fenris examined the arrow and pulled it out. He knew that someone – Zevran maybe – would want to see it. There on the man's neck was a very familiar looking tattoo. He was a crow. He was carrying a pouch filled with vials. Fenris pulled that off as well and folded it together with the arrow, calling out for one of the guards to find Zevran immediately.

Fenris looked back down and saw Ser Aaron pleading with Hawke, and Donal doing much the same with Alistair. Eventually, they turned, Alistair with his hand on the small of Hawke's back, and made their way back in. Hawke continued walking, but kept shooting looks over shoulder toward the direction they both knew the arrow had to have come from.

Fenris himself stood over the body and scanned the towers, looking for movement, hoping to catch anything that would give him a direction, but was disappointed.

It was nearly an hour later when Zevran and Fenris left the battlements and finally allowed the body to be taken away. They'd gone over what Fenris had seen many times, and while the repetition was frustrating, Fenris knew it was necessary to be sure there was nothing left out. After a long talk with Hawke and Alistair who had seemed to be doing their own dissection of events, both looking tense and worried in Alistair's study, Zevran determined that he would have to come back to stay. While staying in the city afforded him better information, staying on the palace grounds would be necessary to forestall another attack. Or better yet, to reveal the identity of this mysterious savior. None of them said it out loud, but they all knew that someone watching and protecting Hawke without a clear motive was far more potentially dangerous than the Crows.

….….

They made an odd trio in the Denerim marketplace. But it was so thronged with people, such a strange confluence of races and countries and levels of affluence that they somehow blended in as well. A ridiculously tall silver-haired elf and the preening, golden light of Zevran Araini competed for his attention, but failed. He'd never seen her in a dress before, but the cut of the deep red, nearly black velvet suited her in its simplicity. Most women would have employed some fanciful camouflage to achieve that affect, but she'd simply had it tailored to her shape. He could imagine the shape of the muscles along her flanks, the length of her legs under the long skirt that brushed along the toes of her boots. She moved in a dress as she did in anything else – smooth, graceful strides and sways of her hips, head up, shoulders straight as if she knew exactly where she was going. He knew that she had not been here since she was young, putting the lie to her straight-backed surety. He imagined the daggers strapped to her back under her cloak helped that confidence. From what he could see when the breeze made the fabric of her dress cling to her legs, she had at least one more dagger strapped to a thigh.

Why they were here at all was a mystery. He knew that she hadn't left the palace since she'd arrived. He'd intercepted enough chatter from the local chantry and those who would make good on her bounty to know that she hadn't so much as peeked her head out of the gates of the palace in the weeks she'd been there. Whether it was self-preservation or some decree laid down by her man-child of a king, he couldn't be sure. Picturing her as the good little subject and the man-child as the domineering king didn't ring true at all, however, after seeing them fighting each other so ferociously in the sparring ring. If she was staying out of sight, it must have been a mutual decision, if not hers alone.

He watched her talk with Zevran, laugh at his comments and admire baubles with him. Though they walked arm in arm most of the time, it was friendly and not amorous. The former Crow kept a constant look out, both when he was being obvious about it and when he was not. The elf trailing behind them looked as if he were about to launch an attack on anything that moved the wrong way. But then he always seemed to look like that. He kept his distance from Zevran and Hawke, glowering in their wake and watching the patterns of people who flowed around them.

He'd been trying for weeks to get more information about the tattooed elf. There was apparently nothing new to know. Even the overabundance of stories from that tale-spinner dwarf were scant on the details of where exactly the elf came from beyond having broken the bonds of slavery and ending up feeling himself indebted to Hawke. He was formidable, deadly, and stoic – that much was certain. After shooting his arrow through that Crow's throat, he'd been silent and still, sure that if he even moved his eyes that the elf would see it somehow. It was only luck or a trick of the light that kept him truly hidden that day. That tattooed elf with his preternatural white hair and huge green eyes had stared directly at him more than once.

Even without the additional information, ammunition he craved, he knew not to underestimate her elf. He was her perfect counterpoint – the skilled Karolis to her Remi in her ever growing legend – the Black Fox returned. The pieces were all there for simple people to conclude simple things about the man who was the Black Fox and the woman who was the Champion of Kirkwall – noble from birth, champion of the common people, mysterious, with a fierce and loyal companion, possessed of a flair for the dramatic and a love of making nobles feel foolish. Except The Black Fox lived more than two ages ago and this woman was walking among the people of Denerim even now. They'd canonized her – and it distracted him every time he slunk through a tavern to sleep a few hours and found her likeness looking back at him from some place of pride above the bar. They were spreading the legend of a woman they'd never truly seen.

They didn't recognize her even now as she stared blankly at her own face mirrored back at her from the wanted posters. He found himself wanting to know what went through her mind when she looked at those posters. Did she fear them? Was she embarrassed by them?

He followed them, through the marketplace, to an inn where they ate and drank, down along the docks where the elf Fenris moaned about the smell and Hawke leapt up piles of crates to dramatically breathe in the salt air. He followed them the whole way, clinging to shadows, keeping his footfalls light. The longer they were out, the more Hawke seemed to talk. The more she talked, the more he wanted to hear. He'd followed them for so long at this point that he was sure that Zevran or the elf must be aware of his presence. But if they were, they hadn't mentioned it or moved to get the group moving along. While Hawke had a pleasant enough voice, it was what she actually said and how she said it that intrigued him the most. He'd never had that opportunity – the chance to simply talk without motivation. When he could have taken it, he didn't. He hadn't wanted to know what she would say under duress. And hearing her talk so easily and so much now was… special somehow. They spoke a great deal about this agent of the Divine, Sister Nightingale, Lelianna, whatever she was going by. When Zevran mentioned with a wry tone that perhaps Hawke should avoid leaving Lelianna and Alistair alone for long periods of time, she tilted her head back and laughed, loud and throaty and true. "If he'd wanted her, don't you think he'd have pursued her? He followed me to Rivain on a rumor and a note from a lying pirate." When Zevran corrected her and stated that it wasn't _Alistair's_ intentions he was concerned about, there was a flicker of something that passed over her face and was gone too quickly to decipher.

"Do you think that's why she's coming?"

Zevran shrugged a bit "I think it is one of the reasons, my dear, though I could be wrong. While I know Lelianna, I have not spoken with her regularly in the past several years. I only know that, since the blight she has not taken a lover and that she has kept regular tabs on the court in Denerim. Lelianna is… persuasive."

Hawke climbed down off the crates "I'm sure in her line of work it's important." There was more than a little bitterness in her tone.

The elf Fenris was leaning against a wall, quiet as part of the masonry. He'd have made a rather fantastic Crow. The elf shared a long look with Hawke which seemed to carry an entire conversation that no one else would be able to decipher or know. He felt suddenly gripped with jealousy. To know her like that – to read her so clearly. What he wouldn't do…

They moved on from there, meandering through the city, taking their time before they headed back to the palace. He was not sure when he would see her again without making his way into the palace itself and he was unsure when it would be wise to do that. He should have taken the chance in the marketplace, gotten closer, brushed past her. But he'd kept his distance so that he could watch and he'd been rewarded for his patience. Hawke and her hangers-on had been followed by someone other than him, and once he saw her back within the palace walls he turned in pursuit, hoping they possessed a throat worth slitting. He'd do it gladly.


End file.
